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Life on the Stage 



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Previous Books by 
Clara Morris 

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The Silent Singer 
Little Jim Crow 




CLARA MORRIS 



Hife on #e jStagr 

My Personal Experiences 
and Recollections 

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McClure, Phillips © Co, 
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THE LIBRARY OF 

CONGRESS. 
Two CuHti Received 

OCT. 10 1901 

COPVRtGHT ENTRY 

CLASS * XXc No. 

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Copyright, I go I, by 
S. S. McClure Co. & 
Clara Morris Harriott 



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CONTENTS 

CHAPTER FIRST 



rage 

I am Born ........ I 



CHAPTER SECOND 

Beginning Early, I Learn Love, Fear, and Hunger — 
I Become Acquainted with Letters, and Alas ! I 
Lose One of my Two Illusions ... 3 



CHAPTER THIRD 

I Enter a New World — I Know a New Hunger 

and we Return to Cleveland .... 9 



CHAPTER FOURTH 

I am Led into the Theatre — I Attend Rehearsals — 
I am Made Acquainted with the Vagaries of 
Tights 17 



CHAPTER FIFTH 

I Receive my First Salary — I am Engaged for the 

Coming Season ...... 25 



viii CONTENTS 



CHAPTER SIXTH 



Page 



The Regular Season Opens — I have a Small Part to 
Play — I am among Lovers of Shakespeare — I 
too Stand at his Knee and Fall under the Charm . 32 



CHAPTER SEVENTH 

find I am in a-. "Family Theatre" — I Fare 
Forth away from my Mother, and in Colum- 
bus I Shelter under the wing of Mrs. Bradshaw . 39 



CHAPTER EIGHTH 

I Display my New Knowledge — I Return to Cleve- 
land to Face my First Theatrical Vacation, 
and I Know the very Tragedy of Littleness . 48 



CHAPTER NINTH 

The Season Reopens — I meet the Yellow Breeches ' 
and become a Utility Man — Mr. Murdock Es- 
capes Fits and my " Luck " Proves to be Extra 
Work 57 

CHAPTER TENTH 

With Mr. Dan. Setchell I Win Applause — A 

Strange Experience comes to Me — I Know 

s Both Fear and Ambition — The Actress is Born 

at Last 68 



CONTENTS ix 



CHAPTER ELEVENTH 



Page 



My Promiscuous Reading wins me a Glass of Soda — 
The Stage takes up my Education and Leads me 
through Many Pleasant Places . . . 73 



CHAPTER TWELFTH 

The Peter Richings' Engagement brings me my 
First Taste of Slander — Anent the Splendor of 
my Wardrobe, also my First Newspaper No- 
tice 80 



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH 

Mr. Roberts Refers to Me as "That Young 
Woman," to My Great Joy — I Issue the "Clara 
Code" — T Receive my First Offer of Marriage . 86 



CHAPTER FOURTEENTH 

Mr. Wilkes Booth comes to us, the whole Sex 
Loves him — Mr. Ellsler Compares him to his 
Great Father — Our Grief and Horror over the 
Awful Tragedy at Washington . . . 97 



CHAPTER FIFTEENTH 

Mr. R- E. J. Miles — His two Horses and our 
Woful Experience with the Substitute " Wild 
Horse of Tartary" ...... 109 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER SIXTEENTH 



Page 



I perform a Remarkable Feat, I Study King Charles 
in One Afternoon and Play Without a Re- 
hearsal — Mrs. D. P. Bowers makes Odd Revela- 
tion , 119 



CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH 

Through Devotion to my Friend, I Jeopardize my 
Reputation — I Own a Baby on Shares — Miss 
Western's Pathetic Speech . . . .124 



CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH 

Mr. Charles W. Couldock — His Daughter Eliza and 

his Many Peculiarities . . . . .129 



CHAPTER NINETEENTH 

I Come to a Turning- Point in my Dramatic Life — 
I play my First Crying Part with Miss Sallie St. 
Clair , 139 



CHAPTER TWENTIETH 

I have to pass through Bitter Humiliation to win 
High Encomiums from Herr Bandmann ; while 
Edwin Booth's Kindness Fills the Theatre with 
Pink Clouds, and I Float Thereon . . . 155 



CONTENTS xi 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST 



Page 



I Digress, but I Return to the Columbus Engagement 
of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean — Their Peculiar- 
ities and their Work . . . . .163 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND 

I hear Mrs. Kean's Story of Wolsey's Robe — I 

laugh at an Extravagantly Kind Prophecy . . 171 



CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD 

Mr. E. L. Davenport, his Interference, his Lecture 
on Stage Business, his Error of Memory or too 
Powerful Imagination — Why I remain a Dra- 
matic Old Slipper — Contemptuous Words arouse 
in me a Dogged Determination to become a Lead- 
ing Woman before leaving Cleveland . .180 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH 

I recall the Popularity and too early Death of Edwin 

Adams ........ 195 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH 

I See an Actress Dethroned — I make myself a Prom- 
ise, for the World does Move . . . .201 



xii CONTENTS 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH 

Page 

Mr. Lawrence Barrett the Brilliant and his Brother 

Joseph the Unfortunate . . . . .205 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH 

I Play " Marie " to Oblige — Mr. Barrett's Remark- 
able Call — Did I Receive a Message from the 
Dying or the Dead ? ..... 215 



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH 

I accept an Engagement with Mr. Macaulay for Cin- 
cinnati as Leading Lady — My Adieus to Cleve- 
land — Mr. Ellsler Presents Me with a Watch . 227 



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH 

My first Humiliating Experience in Cincinnati is Fol- 
lowed by r. Successful Appearance — I Make the 
Acquaintance of the Enthusiastic Navoni . .238 



CHAPTER THIRTIETH 

New York City is Suggested to Me by Mr. Worth- 
ington and Mr. Johnson — Mr. Ellsler's Mild As- 
sistance — I Journey to New York, and Return to 
Cincinnati with Signed Contract from Mr. Daly . 248 



CONTENTS xiii 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST 

Page 

John Cockerill and our Eccentric Engagement — I 
Play a Summer Season at Halifax — Then to New 
York, and to House-Keeping at Last . . . 259 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND 

I Recall Mr. John E. Owens, and How He " Settled 

my Hash " 268 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD 

From the " Wild West " I Enter the Eastern " Parlor 
of Home Comedy " — I Make my First Appear- 
ance in u Man and Wife " . . . .276 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH 

I Rehearse Endlessly — I Grow Sick with Dread — I 

Meet with Success in Anne Sylvester . . .287 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH 

I Am Accepted by the Company — I am Warned 
against Mr. Fisk — I Have an Odd Encounter 
with Mr. Gould ...... 300 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH 

A Search for Tears — I Am Punished in " Saratoga " 
for the Success of " Man and Wife " — I Win 
Mr. Daly's Confidence — We Become Friends . 315 



xiv CONTENTS 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH 

Page 

A Study of Stage-Management — I Am Tricked into 

Signing a New Contract . . . . .326 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH 

I Go to the Sea-shore — The Search for a " Scar " — 
I Make a Study of Insanity, and Meet with Suc- 
cess in " 1/ Article 47 " 333 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH 

I Am too Dull to Understand a Premonition — By 
Mr. Daly's Side I See the Destruction of the 
Fifth Avenue Theatre by Fire .... 345 

CHAPTER FORTIETH 

We Become u Barn-stormers," and Return to Open 
the New Theatre — Our Astonishing Misunder- 
standing of " Alixe," which Proves a Great 
Triumph ....... 352 

CHAPTER FORTY-FIRST 

Trouble about Obnoxious Lines in " Madeline Morel " 
— Mr. Daly's Manipulation of Father X : In 
Spite of our Anxiety the Audience accepts the 
Situation and the Play — Mr. Daly gives me the 
smallest Dog in New York . . . . 367 



CONTENTS xv 



CHAPTER FORTY-SECOND 



Page 



I am Engaged to Star part of the Season — Mr. Daly 
Breaks his Contract — I Leave him and under 
Threat of Injunction — I meet Mr. Palmer and 
make Contract and appear at the Union Square in 
the " Wicked World " 375 



CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD 

We Give a Charity Performance of " Camille," and 
Are Struck with Amazement at our Success — Mr. 
Palmer Takes the Cue and Produces " Camille " 
for Me at the Union Square . . . .382 



CHAPTER FORTY-FOURTH 

" Miss Multon " Put in Rehearsal — Our Squabble 
over the Manner of her Death — Great Success 
of the Play — Mr. Palmer's Pride in it — My 
Au Revoir ....... 390 



LIFE ON THE STAGE 



CHAPTER FIRST 

I am Born. 

IF this simple tale is to be told at all, it may as well be- 
gin at the beginning and in the good old-fashioned and 
best of all ways — thus : Once upon a time in the Cana- 
dian city of Toronto, on the 17th of March, the sun rose 
bright and clear — which was a most surprising thing for 
the sun to do on St. Patrick's Day, but while the people 
were yet wondering over it the sunlight disappeared, 
clouds of dull gray spread themselves evenly over the 
sky, and then the snow fell — fell fast and furious, 
quickly whitening the streets and house-tops, softly lin- 
ing every hollow, and was piling little cushions on top 
of all the hitching-posts, when the flakes grew larger, 
wetter, farther apart, and after a little hesitation turned 
to rain — a sort of walk-trot-gallop rain, which wound 
up with one vivid flash of lightning and a clap of thunder 
that fairly shook the city. 

Now the Irish, being a brave people and semi-am- 
phibious, pay no heed to wet weather. Usually all the 
Hibernians residing in a city divide themselves into two 
bodies on St. Patrick's Day, the ones who parade and 
the ones who follow the parade; but on this occasion 
they divided themselves into three bodies — the men who 
paraded, the men and women who followed the parade, 
and the Orangemen who made things pleasant for both 
parties. 

As the out-of-time, out-of-tune band turned into a quiet 
cross-street to lead its following green-bannered host to 



2 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

a broader one, the first brick was thrown — probably by 
a woman, as it hit no one, but metaphorically it knocked 
the chip off of the shoulder of every child of Erin. Down 
fell the banners, up went the fists! Orange and Green 
were at each other tooth and nail! Hats from prehis- 
toric ages side by side with modern beavers scarcely fifty 
years old received the hurled brick-bat and went down 
together ! 

The band reached the broad avenue alone, and looked 
back to see the short street a-sway with struggling men, 
while women holding their bedraggled petticoats up, their 
bonnets hanging down their backs by green ribbon ties, 
hovered about the edges of the crowd, making predatory 
dashes now and then to scratch a face or rescue some 
precious hat from the melee, meanwhile inciting the men 
to madness by their fierce cries — and in a quiet house, 
in the very midst of this riot — just before the constabu- 
lary charged the crowd — I was born. I don't know, of 
course, whether I was really intended from the first for 
that house, or whether the stork became so frightened 
at the row in the street that he just dropped me from 
sheer inability to carry me any farther — anyway, I came 
to a house where trouble and poverty had preceded me, 
and, worse than both these put together — treachery. 

Still, I accepted the situation with indifference. That 
the cupboard barely escaped absolute emptiness gave me 
no anxiety, as I had no teeth anyway. As a gentleman 
with a medicine-case in his hand was leaving the house he 
paused a moment for the slavey to finish washing away a 
pool of blood from the bottom step — and then there came 
that startling clap of thunder. Brand new as I was to 
this world and its ways, I entered my protest at once 
with such force and evident wrath that the doctor down- 
stairs exclaimed : " Our young lady has temper as well 
as a good pair of lungs ! " and went on his way laughing. 

And so on that St. Patrick's Day of sunshine, snow, 
and rain, of riot and bloodshed, in trouble and poverty 
— I was born. 



CHAPTER SECOND 

Beginning Early, I Learn Love, Fear, and Hunger — I 
Become Acquainted with Letters, and Alas ! I Lose 
One of my Two Illusions. 

OF the Days of St. Patrick that followed, not one 
found me in the city of my birth - — indeed, six 
months completed my period of existence in the 
Dominion, and I have known it no more. 

Some may think it strange that I mention these early 
years at all, but the reason for such mention will appear 
later on. Looking back at them, they seem to divide them- 
selves into groups of four years each. During the first 
four, my time was principally spent in growing and learn- 
ing to keep out of people's way. I acquired some other 
knowledge, too, and little child as I was, I knew fear long 
before I knew the thing that frightened me. I knew that 
love for my mother which was to become the passion of 
my life, and I also knew hunger. But the fear was harder 
to endure than the hunger — it was so vague, yet so all- 
encompassing. 

We had to flit so often — suddenly, noiselessly. Often 
I was gently roused from my sleep at night and hastily 
dressed — sometimes simply wrapped up without being 
dressed, and carried through the dark to some other 
place of refuge, from — what ? When I went out into 
the main business streets I had a tormenting barege veil 
over my face that would not let me see half the pretty 
things in the shop windows, and I was quick to notice 
that no other little girl had a veil on. Next I remarked 
that if a strange lady spoke to me my mother seemed 
pleased — but if a man noticed me she was not pleased, 
and once when a big man took me by the hand and led 

3 



4 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

me to a candy store for some candy she was as white 
as could be and so angry she frightened me, and she 
promised me a severe punishment if I ever, ever went one 
step with a strange man again. And so my fear began 
to take the form of a man, of a big, smiling man — for 
my mother always asked, when I reported that a stranger 
had spoken to me, if he was big and smiling. 

I had known the sensation of hunger long before I 
knew the word that expressed it, and I often pressed my 
hands over my small empty stomach, and cried and pulled 
at my mother's dress skirt. If there was anything at all 
to give I received it, but sometimes there was absolutely 
nothing but a drink of water to offer, which checked the 
gnawing for a moment or two, and at those times there 
was a tightening of my mother's trembling lips, and a 
straight up and down wrinkle between her brows, that 
I grew to know, and when I saw that look on her face I 
could not ask for anything more than " a dwink, please." 

As an illustration of her almost savage pride and hon- 
esty : I one day saw a woman in front of the house buy- 
ing some potatoes. I knew that potatoes cooked were 
very comforting to empty stomachs. One or two of them 
fell to the street during the measuring and I picked one up, 
and, fairly wild with delight, I scrambled up the stairs 
with it. But my mother was angry through and through. 

" Who gave it to you ? " she demanded. 

I explained with a trembling voice : " I des* founded 
it on the very ground — and I'se so hungry ! " 

But hungry or not hungry, I had to take the potato 
back : " Nothing in the world could be taken without ask- 
ing — that was stealing — and she was the only person 
in the world I had a right to ask anything of ! " 

It was a bitter lesson, and was rendered more so by the 
fact that when I carried the tear-bathed potato back to 
the street and laid it down, neither the woman who bought 
nor the man who sold was in sight — and, dear Heaven ! 
I could almost have eaten it raw. 

But I was learning obedience and self-respect; more 



FLEEING FROM MY FATHER 5 

than that^ I was already acquiring one of the necessary 
qualities for an actress — the power of close observation. 

The next four years (the second group) were the hard- 
est to endure of them all. True, I now had sufficient food 
and warmth, since my mother had given up sewing for 
shops — which kept us nearly always hungry — and had 
found other occupations. But the great object of both 
our lives was to be together, and there are few people 
who are willing to employ a woman who has with her a 
child. And if her services are accepted, even at a reduced 
salary, it is necessary for that child to be as far as pos- 
sible neither seen nor heard. Therefore until I was old 
enough to be admitted into a public school I never knew 
another child — I never played with any living creature 
save a remarkable cat, that seemed to have claws all over 
her, and in my fixed determination to trace her purr and 
find out where it came from, she buried those claws to 
the very last one in my fat, investigating little hands. 

Meantime my " fear " had assumed the shape and sub- 
stance of a man, a man who bore a name that should have 
been loved and honored above all others, for this " bogey " 
of my baby days — this nightmare and dread — was my 
own father. When my mother had discovered his treach- 
ery — which had not hesitated to boldly face the very 
altar — she took her child and fled from him, assuming 
her mother's maiden name as a disguise. But go where 
she would, he followed and made scenes. Finally, under- 
standing that she was not to be won back by sophistries, 
he offered to leave her in peace if she would give the 
child to him. And when that offer was indignantly re- 
jected, he pleasantly informed her that he would make 
life a curse to her until she gave me up, and that by fair 
means or by foul he would surely obtain possession of me. 
Once he did kidnap me, but my mother had found friends 
by that time, and their pursuit was so swift and unex- 
pected that he had to abandon me. 

So, he who should have been the defender and support 
of my mother — whose arms should have been our shel- 



6 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

ter from the world — the big, smiling French-Canadian 
father — became instead our terror and our dread. There- 
fore when my mother served in varying capacities in other 
people's homes, and I had to efface myself as nearly as 
possible, I dared not even go out to walk a little, so great 
was my mother's fear. 

It seems odd, but in spite of my far-reaching memory, 
I cannot remember when I learned to read. I can recall 
but one tiny incident relating to the subject of learning. 
I stood upon a chair and while my hair was brushed and 
braided I spelled my words, and I had my ears boxed 
— a custom considered criminal in these better days — be- 
cause, having successfully spelled " elephant," I came to 
grief over " mouse," as, according to my judgment, 
m-o-w-s filled all the requirements of the case. I remem- 
ber, too, that the punishment made me afraid to ask what 
" elephant " meant ; but I received the impression that it 
was some sort of a public building. 

However, when I was six years old I joyfully betook 
myself to a primary school, from which I was sent home 
with a note, saying that " in that department they did 
not go beyond the ' primer,' and as this little girl reads 
quite well from a ' reader,' she must have been taught 
well at home." We were a proud yet disappointed pair, 
my mother and I, that day. 

An odd little incident occurred about that time. One 
of our hurried flights had ended at a boarding house, 
and my extreme quietude — unnatural in a child of 
health and intelligence — attracted the attention of a 
certain boarder, who was an actress. She was very 
popular with the public, and both she and her hus- 
band were well liked by the people about them. She took 
a fancy to me, and informing herself that my mother was 
poor and alone, she offered to adopt me. She stated her 
position, her income, and her intention of educating me 
thoroughly. She thought a convent school would be de- 
sirable — from ten, say to seventeen. 

Perhaps my mother was tempted — she was a fanatic 



"MY PROCESSION" 7 

on the question of learning — but, oh ! what a big but 
came in just then : " but when I should have, by God's 
will, reached the age of seventeen, she (the actress) 
would place me upon the stage." 

" Gracious Heaven ! her child on the stage ! " my 
mother was stricken with horror! She scarcely had 
strength to make her shocked refusal plain enough; and 
when her employer ventured to remonstrate with her, 
pointing out the great advantage to me, she made answer : 
" It would be better for her to starve trying to lead a 
clean and honorable life, than to be exposed to such pub- 
licity and such awful temptations ! " 

Poor mother! the theatre was to her imagination but 
a beautiful vestibule leading to a place of wickedness and 
general wrong-doing! 

During those endless months, when I had each day to 
sit for hours and hours in one particular chair in a cor- 
ner, well out of the way — sit so long that often when 
I was lifted down I could not stand at all, my limbs being 
numbed to absolute helplessness, I had two great days 
to dream of, to look forward to — Christmas and that 
wonderful 17th of March, when because it was my birth- 
day all those nice gentlemen, with the funny hats and 
green collars, walked out behind the band. And I felt 
particularly well disposed toward those most amusing 
gentlemen who wore, according to my theory at least, 
their little girls' aprons tied about their big waists. 

I did not like so well the attendant crowd, but then I 
could not be selfish enough to keep people from looking 
at " my procession " and enjoying the music that made 
the blood dance in my own veins, even as my feet danced 
on the chill pavement. 

I always received an orange on that day from my 
mother, and almost always a book, so it was a great event 
in my life, and I used to get down my little hat-box and 
fix the laces in my best shoes days ahead of time 
that I might be ready to stand on some steps where I 
could bow and smile to the nice gentlemen who walked 



8 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

out in my honor. Heaven only knows how I got the 
idea that the procession was meant for me, but it made 
me very happy, and my heart was big with love and grati- 
tude for those people who took so much trouble for me. 

I had but two illusions in the world — Santa Claus and 
" my procession " — but, alas ! on my eighth birthday, 
when in an outburst of innocent triumph and joy I cried 
to a grown-up : " Ain't they good — those funny gentle- 
men — to come and march and play music for my birth- 
day ? " I was answered with the assurance that I " was a 
fool — that no one knew or cared a copper about me — 
that it was a Saint, a dead and gone man, they marched 
for!" 

All the dance went out of my feet, heavy tears fell 
fast and stood round and clear on the woolly surface of 
my cloak, and bending my head low to hide my disap- 
pointment, I went slowly home, where the chair seemed 
harder, the hours longer, and life more bare because 
I had lost the illusion that had brightened and glorified it. 

At the present time, here in my home, there is seated 
in an arm-chair, a venerable doll. She is a hideous speci- 
men of the beautiful doll of the early " fifties." She sits 
with her soles well turned up, facing you, her arms hang- 
ing from her shoulders in that idiotically helpless "I- 
give-it-up " fashion, peculiar to dolls. With bulging 
scarlet cheeks, button-hole mouth and flat, blue staring 
eyes she faces Time and unwinkingly looks him down. 
To anyone else she is stupidity personified, but to me she 
speaks, for she came to me on my fourth Christmas, and 
she is as gifted as she is ugly. Only last birthday — as 
I straightened out her old, old dress skirt — she asked 
me if I remembered how I cried, with my face in her lap, 
over that first loss of an illusion — and I told her quite 
truly that I remembered well ! 



CHAPTER THIRD 

I Enter a New World — I Know a New Hunger and we 
Return to Cleveland. 

THE experiences of the first two of my third group 
of years have influenced my entire life. Still flying 
from my seemingly ubiquitous father, my mother 
after a desperate struggle gained enough money to pay for 
our journey to what was then called the " far West " — 
namely, the southwestern part of Illinois. Child-fashion, 
I was delighted at the prospect of a change, and happy 
over the belief that I was going to some place where I 
could be free to go and come like other children, without 
dreading the appearance of a big, smiling man from any 
deep doorway or from around the next corner. To tell 
the truth, that persistent, indestructible smile always 
seemed an insult added to the injury of his malicious and 
revengeful conduct. 

Then, too, I experienced my first delicious thrill of 
imaginary terror. In a torn and abandoned old geogra- 
phy I had seen a picture labelled " Prairie." The grass 
was as high as a man's shoulders, and stealthily emerging 
from it was a sort of compound animal, neither tiger nor 
leopard, but with points of resemblance to both. And 
here every day I was listening to the grown-ups talking 
of " prairie lands," and how far we might have to drive 
across the prairie after leaving the train ; and I made up 
my mind that I would hold our umbrella all the time, and 
when the uncertain beast came out I'd try to stick his 
eyes with it, and under cover of the confusion we would 
undoubtedly escape. 

That being settled, I could turn all my attention to 

9 



io LIFE ON THE STAGE 

preparations for the long journey. Dear me, I remem- 
ber just where each big red rose came on the carpet-bag, 
and how sorry I was that the tiny brass lock came right 
in the side of one. It was a large bag and held a great 
deal, but was so arranged that whatever you wanted was 
always found at the bottom — whether it was the tooth- 
brush or a night-gown or a pair of rubbers. It had a 
sort of dividing wall of linen in its middle, and while one 
side held clothing, the other side was the commissary de- 
partment. No buffet-cars then, travellers ran their own 
buffets, and though the things did not come into actual 
contact, there was not an article, big or little, in that bag 
that did not smell of pickles. And once when my mother 
had hastily attended to my needs in the miserable toilet- 
room of the car (no sleeper — just a sit-up-all-night af- 
fair), my clean stockings, white apron and little hand- 
kerchief all exhaled vinegar so strongly that I wrinkled 
up my nose, exclaiming: "I smell jes' like a pickled 
little girl — don't I, ma'ma ? " And then, when weary 
and worn and dusty, we left the cars and had to drive 
some thirty miles, in a carriage of uncertain class, over 
the open prairie — then smooth and bright and green — 
I wearily remarked, after a time, that it was a " pretty big 
lawn, but where was the prairie ? " for true to my plan 
I had secured the umbrella, and being told that I was 
crossing the prairie then, I was a bitterly disappointed 
young person. Oh, how I longed to give way to one of 
those passionate outbursts we so often see children in- 
dulge in ! Oh, how I wanted to hurl aside the umbrella 
I had begged for, to fling my weary self down on the 
floor and cry, and cry ! But I dared not — never in my 
whole life had I ventured on such an exhibition of tem- 
per or feeling — so I winked fast and held very still and 
swallowed hard at the disappointment, which was but the 
first of such a number of very bitter pills that I was yet 
to swallow. 

But, thank God! if I was easily cast down, I was as 
easily cheered; and the prairie left behind, the sight of 



COUNTRY LIFE n 

the first orchard we passed, with the soft perfumed snow 
of the blossoms floating through the rosy sunset light, 
raised my spirits to an ecstasy of joy; and when our 
journey ended, at the rough farm-house, with my arm 
around the surly looking watch-dog, I stood and heard 
for the first time the mournful cry of the whippoorwill 
out in the star-pierced dark of the early May night, I 
thrilled with the unspoken consciousness that this was a 
new world that I was entering — a lovely, lovely world, 
that the grown-ups called the " country " ! 

For the two years I knew it the charm of that back- 
wood life never palled. I had never seen the country be- 
fore, and I found it a place of beauty and many mar- 
vels. I did not miss the fine city shops, for I never had 
had money to spend in them. I did not miss the peo- 
ple, for they had been nothing to me. And here no day 
that dawned failed to bring me some new experience. 
With what awed wonderment I faced the mystery of the 
springing grain. I saw the seed, hard and dry, fall into 
the furrowed earth and, a few days later, with gentle 
strength, tiny pale green spears come pricking through 
the brown. I learned not to look under the hickory-trees 
for the oak acorns that I adored. I was soon able to tell 
the rapidly forming furry green peaches from the smooth 
young apples, and I literally fell down upon my knees 
and worshipped before lambs, calves, and colts. 

In this new, strange life everyone worked, but they 
worked for themselves — to use a country expression, no 
one " hired out." I was a very little girl. I could not 
spin as could my mother, who had passed her childhood 
in backwood life. Of course I could not weave, but I 
was taught to knit my own stockings — such humpy, 
lumpy knitting ! But I was very proud of the accomplish- 
ment, even though my mother did have to " turn the 
heel.' , Then, too, I with other children at planting-time 
dropped corn in the sun-warmed furrows, while a man 
followed behind with a hoe covering it up ; and when it 
had sprouted and was a tempting morsel for certain 



12 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

black robbers of the field, I made a very active and ener- 
getic young scare-crow. 

Here, too, I became acquainted with children. They 
were all older than I was, a hearty, healthy, wisely-igno- 
rant lot. They knew so much about farming and so little 
about anything else. Not one of them could tell a story 
out of the Bible, and as for the " Pilgrim's Progress," 
they had never heard tell of it ; while Bunyan only meant 
to them an enlarged toe-joint — not a great author. 

The lack of reading matter was the one blemish on my 
country life. The library, composed of the Bible and the 
almanac, was not satisfying to my inquiring mind. One 
paper was taken in by the head of the family — it was a 
weekly, in every possible sense — but I came to watch 
eagerly for it, and it filled the family with amazement to 
see me sit down on the step and gravely wade through 
its dreary columns — happy if I could catch hold of some 
idea — some bit of news — some scrap of story ; and my 
farmer host one day at his noon smoke removed his 
corn-cob pipe from his lips long enough to remark of me : 
" Dogorne my skin ! if that young 'un ain't awake and 
enj'ien hersel'. Now I allers go ter sleep over that paper 
mysel' ! " So should I — now — I presume. 

These children being for-true, real children had no 
idea of showing courtesy or politeness to a stranger, but 
they had a very natural yearning to get fun out of that 
stranger if they could, and so they blithely led me forth 
to a pasture shortly after our arrival at the farm, and 
catching a horse they hoisted me up on to its bare, slip- 
pery back. I have learned a good bit about horses since 
then — have hired, borrowed, and bought them — have 
been to circuses and horse shows, but never since have I 
seen a horse of such appalling aspect. His eyes were the 
size of soup-plates, large clouds of smoke came from his 
nostrils. He had a glass-enamelled surface, and if he 
was one half as tall as he felt, some museum manager 
missed a fortune. Then the young fiends, leaving me on 
my slippery perch, high up near the sky, drew afar off 



CHILDHOOD AMUSEMENTS 13 

and stood over against the fence and gave me plenty of 
room — to fall off. But when I suddenly felt the world 
heave up beneath me, I uttered a wild shriek — clenched 
my hands in the animal's back hair, and, madly flinging 
propriety to any point of the compass that happened to 
be behind me, I cast one pantalet over the enamelled 
back, and thus astride, safely crossed the pasture — and 
lo ! it was not I who fell, but their faces instead. When 
they came to take me down, somehow the animal seemed 
shrunken and I hesitated about leaving it, whereupon the 
biggest boy said I had "pluck" (I had been frightened 
nearly to death, but I always could be silent at the proper 
moment; I was silent then), and he would teach me 
to ride sideways, for my mother would surely punish me 
if I sat astride like that ; and in a few weeks, thanks to 
him, I was the one who was oftenest trusted to take the 
horses to water at noon, riding sideways and always bare- 
back, mounted on one horse and leading a second to the 
creek, until all had had their drink. Which habit of rid- 
ing — from balance — has made me quite independent of 
stirrups on various occasions since those far-away days. 

In the late autumn, these same children taught me 
where and when and how to find such treasures of the 
woods as hickory-nuts, chestnuts (rare there), butternuts, 
and pecan-nuts, while the thickets furnished hazel-nuts 
and the frost brought sweetness to the persimmon, and 
consequently pleasure to our palates, but never could I 
acquire a taste for the " paw-paw," that inane custard- 
like fruit, often called the American banana. 

I helped obtain the roots and barks and nut-shells from 
which the grown-ups made their dyes. I learned to use 
a bow and arrow ; and on rainy days, having nothing new 
to read, I learned by heart the best chapters of my own 
birthday books, and often repeated them to the other chil- 
dren when we cuddled in the hayloft, above the horses. 

One day I became too realistic, and in my " flight from 
my step-mother's home " I fell through the hole where 
the hay was tossed down to old Jerry's manger. He was 



i 4 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

a serious-minded and kindly old horse, and did nothing 
worse than snort a little over the change in his diet, from 
hay to small girl. My severe bruises would have been 
borne with fortitude, but when I arose — behold a 
wretched wandering hen had been in the manger before 
me, and if one judged from the state of my clothing, the 
egg she had left behind must have been the size of a 
melon at least ! If that seems an exaggeration, just break 
an egg in your pocket, if you don't care to sit down on 
one, and see how far it will spread. Then, indeed, I lifted 
my voice and wept! 

Yes, those were two precious years, in which I learned 
to love passionately the beauty of the world ! The tender, 
mystic charm of dawn, the pomp and splendor of the 
setting of the sun ! Finding in the tiny perfection of the 
velvety moss the minute repetition of the form and branch- 
ing beauty of the stately tree at whose root it grew! 
Seeing all the beauty of the blue sky and its sailing 
clouds encompassed by a quivering drop of dew upon a 
mullein leaf I dimly felt some faint comprehension of 
the divine satisfaction when the Creator pronounced the 
work of His hands, " Good ! " 

From the first my mother had been greatly distressed 
by the absence of any school to which I might go, and 
also by her inability to earn money. She had been wise 
enough not to leave Cleveland without sufficient means 
to bring us back again — which proved most fortunate. 
For when quite suddenly we heard of the published death 
of my father, we immediately returned and she obtained 
employment, while I was sent to the public school. But, 
oh, what a poor, meagre course of study I entered on. 
Reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, and geography — 
that was all ! Only one class in the grammar-school studied 
history. However, improvements were being discussed, 
and I remember that three weeks before my final with- 
drawal from school my mother had to buy me a book on 
physiology, which was to be taught to the children, who 
had not even a bowing acquaintance with grammar. But 



A SAVING HABIT 15 

I hungered and thirsted for knowledge — I craved it — 
longed for it. During the weary years of repression I 
had fallen back upon imagination for amusement and 
comfort, and when I was ten my " thinks," as I then 
called my waking dreams, almost surely took one of these 
two forms. Since I had abandoned " thinks " about 
fairies coming to grant my wishes, I always walked out 
(in my best hat), and saved either an old lady or an old 
gentleman — sometimes one, sometimes the other — from 
some imminent peril — a sort of impressionist peril — 
vague but very terrible ! and the rescued one was always 
tremblingly grateful and offered to reward me, and I 
always sternly refused to be rewarded, but unbent suffi- 
ciently to see the saved one safely to his or her splendid 
home. There I revelled in furniture, pictures, musical in- 
struments and an assortment of beautiful dogs. On leav- 
ing this palatial residence I consented to give my address, 
and next day the " saved " called on my mother and 
after some conversation it was settled that I was to go to 
the convent-school for four years, where I knew the edu- 
cation was generous and thorough, and that languages, 
music, and painting were all taught. As these " thinks " 
took place at night after the ill-smelling extinguishment 
of the candle, I generally fell asleep before, in white robe 
and a crown of flowers, I gathered up all the prizes and 
diplomas and things I had earned. 

When my mother in the performance of her duties 
had to accept orders, she received them calmly and 
as a matter of course — whatever she may have felt in 
her heart — but I loved and reverenced her so ! To me 
she was the one woman of the world ; and when I saw her 
taking orders from another I flinched and shrank as I 
would have done beneath the sharp lash of a whip, and 
then for nights afterward (so soon as I had released my 
nose, tightly pinched to keep out the smell of candle- 
smoke), I settled down, with my mother's hand tight 
clasped in mine, to my other favorite " thinks " where- 
in I did some truly remarkable embroidery, of such pre- 



16 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

cision of stitch, such perfection of coloring and shading, 
that when I offered it for sale I was much embarrassed 
by the numbers of would-be buyers. However, an old 
lady finally won me away from the store (that old lady 
was bound to appear in all my " thinks "), and I had to 
be very firm with her to keep her from over-paying me 
for the work of my hands. 

Then, as I had graciously promised the store-keeper 
any over-plus of embroidery not needed by the generous 
old person, I felt my income secure, and hastened to rent 
two rooms and furnish them, ready to take my aston- 
ished mother there — where she could do the ordering 
herself. 

I hung curtains, laid carpets, put dishes in the cupboard, 
gave one window to my mother and kept one for myself 
and my very exceptional embroidery ; and, though I laugh 
now, I had then many an hour of genuine happiness, fur- 
nishing this imaginary home and refuge for the mother 
I loved! 



CHAPTER FOURTH 

I am Led into the Theatre — I Attend Rehearsals — I am 
Made Acquainted with the Vagaries of Tights. 

I WAS approaching my thirteenth birthday when it 
came about that a certain ancient boarding-house 
keeper — far gone in years — required someone to as- 
sist her, someone she could trust entirely and leave in 
charge for a month at a time ; and I, not being able to read 
the future, was greatly chagrined because my mother ac- 
cepted the offered situation. I was always happiest when 
she found occupation in a house where there was a library, 
for people were generally kind to me in that respect and 
gave me the freedom of their shelves, seeing that I was 
reverently careful of all books ; but in a boarding-house 
there would be no library, and my heart sank as we entered 
the gloomy old building. 

No, there were no books, but among the boarders there 
were two or three actors and two actresses — a mother 
and a daughter. The mother played the " first old 
women " ; the daughter, only a year or two older than I 
was, played, I was told, " walking-ladies," though what 
that meant I could not imagine. 

The daughter (Blanche) liked me, while I looked upon 
her with awe, and wondered why she even noticed me. 
She was very wilful, she would not study anything on 
earth save her short parts. She had never read a book 
in her life. When I was home from school I told her 
stories by the hour, and she would say : " You ought 
to be in a theatre — you could act ! " 

And then I would be dumb for a long time, because I 
thought she was making fun of me. One day I was chew- 
ing some gum she gave me — I was not chewing it very 

17 



18 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

nicely, either — and my mother boxed my ears, and 
Blanche said : " You ought to be in a theatre — you could 
chew all the gum you liked there ! " 

And just then my mother was so cruelly overworked, 
and the spring came in with furious heat, and I felt so 
big and yet so helpless — a great girl of thirteen to be 
worked for by another — and the humiliation seemed 
more than I could bear, and I locked myself in our dreary 
cupboard of a room, and flung myself upon my knees, 
and in a passion of tears tried to make a bargain with 
my God ! I meant no irreverence — I was intensely re- 
ligious. I did not see the enormity of the act — I only 
knew that I suffered, and that God could help me — so 
I asked His help ! But, instead of stopping there, I cried 
out to Him this promise: " Dear God! just pity me and 
show me what to do ! Please — please help me to help 
my mother — and if you will, I'll never say ' No ! ' to any 
woman who comes to me all my life long ! " 

My error in trying to barter with my Maker must have 
been forgiven, for my prayer was answered within a week, 
while there are many women scattered through the 
land who know that I have tried faithfully to keep my 
part of that bargain, and no woman who has sought my 
aid has ever been answered with a " No ! " 

One day Blanche greeted me with the news that extra 
ballet-girls were wanted, and told me that I must go at 
once and get engaged. 

" But," I said, " maybe they won't take me ! " 

" Well," answered she, " I've coaxed your mother, and 
my mother says she'll look out for you — so at any rate 
go and see. I'll take you to-morrow." 

And so dimly, vaguely, I seemed to see a way opening 
out before me, and again behind the locked door I knelt 
and said : " Dear God ! dear God ! " and got no further, 
because grief has many words and joy has so few. 

The school term had closed on Friday, and on Saturday 
morning, with my heart beating almost to suffocation, I 
started out to walk to the theatre with Blanche, who had 



I JOIN THE BALLET 19 

promised to ask Mr. Ellsler (the manager) to take me on 
in the ballet. When we reached the sidewalk we saw 
the sky threatened rain and Blanche sent me back for an 
umbrella. I had none of my own, so I borrowed one from 
Mrs. Miller (our landlady), and at sight of it my com- 
panion broke into laughter. It was a dreadful affair — 
with a knobby, unkind handle, a slovenly and corpulent 
body, and a circumference, when open, that suggested the 
idea that it had been built to shelter not only the land- 
lady, but those wise ones of the boarders who had paid 
up before the winds rose and the rain fell. Then we 
proceeded to the old Academy of Music on Bank Street, 
and entering, went upstairs, and just as we reached the 
top step a small dark man hurried across the hall and 
Blanche called quickly : " Oh, Mr. Ellsler — Mr. Ellsler ! 
wait a moment, please — I want to speak to you ! " 

I could not know that his almost repellent sternness 
of face concealed a kindness of heart that approached 
weakness, so when he turned a frowning, impatient face 
toward us, hope left me utterly, and for a moment I 
seemed to stand in a great darkness. I think I can do no 
better than to give Mr. Ellsler's own account of that, our 
first meeting, as he has given it often since. He says: 
" I was much put out by a business matter and was hastily 
crossing the corridor when Blanche called me, and I saw 
she had another girl in tow ; a girl whose appearance in a 
theatre was so droll I must have laughed, had I not been 
more than a little cross. Her dress was quite short — she 
wore a pale-blue apron buttoned up the back, long braids 
tied at the ends with ribbon, and a brown straw hat, 
while she clutched desperately at the handle of the big- 
gest umbrella I ever saw. Her eyes were distinctly blue 
and were plainly big with fright. Blanche gave her name 
and said she wanted to go on in the ballet, and I instantly 
answered she would not do, she was too small — I 
wanted women, not children, and started to return to my 
office. Blanche was voluble, but the girl herself never 
spoke a single word. I glanced toward her and stopped. 



20 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

The hands that clutched the umbrella trembled — she 
raised her eyes and looked at me. I had noticed their blue- 
ness a moment before — now they were almost black, so 
swiftly had the pupils dilated, and slowly the tears rose 
in "them. All the father in me shrank under the child's 
bitter disappointment; all the actor in me thrilled at 
the power of expression in the girl's face, and I hastily 
added : ' Oh, well ! You may come back in a day or 
two, and if anyone appears meantime who is short enough 
to march with you I'll take you on,' and after I got to 
my office I remembered the girl had not spoken a single 
word, but had won an engagement — for I knew I should 
engage her — with a pair of tear-filled eyes." 

The following Tuesday, under the protection of the 
ever-faithful Blanche, I again presented myself and was 
engaged for the term of two weeks, to go on the stage 
in the marches and dances of a play called " The Seven 
Sisters," for which service I was to receive three dollars 
a week, or fifty cents a night, as there were no matinees 
then, and so I entered, with wide-astonished eyes, into 
that dim, dusty, chaotic place known as " behind the 
scenes " — a strange place, where nothing is and every- 
thing may be. 

In the daytime I found the stage a thing dead — at 
night, with the blazing of the gas, it lived ! for light is 
its life, music is its soul, and the play its brain. 

Silently and cautiously I walked about, gazing curi- 
ously at the " scenes," so fine on one side, so bare and 
cheap on the other ; at the tarlatan " glass windows " ; at 
the green "calico sea," lying flat and waveless on the 
floor. Everything there pretended to be something else, 
and at last I said solemnly to Blanche : " Is everything 
only make-believe in a theatre ? " 

And she turned her gum to the other side and answered : 
" Yes, everything's make-believe — except salary day ! " 

Then came the rehearsal — everything was military 
just then — and there was a Zouave drill to learn, as well 
as a couple of dances. The women and girls who had 



I AM ENCOURAGED 21 

been engaged were not the very nicest people in the world, 
though they were the best to be found at such short no- 
tice ; and Mrs. Bradshaw told me not to stand about with 
them, but to come to her as soon as my share in the work 
was over. " But," said this wise woman, " don't fail 
in politeness to them ; for nothing can hold a person so 
far off as extreme politeness." 

To me the manual of arms was mere child's play, and 
the drill a veritable delight. The second day I scribbled 
down the movements in the order that they had been 
made, and learned them by heart, with the result that on 
the third day I sat aside chewing gum, while the stage- 
manager raved over the rest. Then the star — Mr. Mc- 
Donough — came along and furiously demanded to know 
why I was not drilling. " The gentleman sent me out of 
the ranks, sir," I answered, " because he said I knew 
the manual and drill ! " 

" Oh, indeed ! well, there's not one of you that knows 
it — and you never will know it ! You're a set of numb- 
skulls ! Here ! " he cried, catching up a rifle, " take hold 
of this — get up here — and let's see how much you know ! 
Now, then, shoulder arms ! " 

And standing alone — burning with blushes, blinded 
with tears of mortification — I was put through my paces 
with a vengeance ; but I really knew the manual as thor- 
oughly as I knew the drill, and when it was over Mr. 
McDonough took the rifle from me, and exclaimed: 
" Well, saucer-eyes, you do know it ! I'm d — d if you 
don't! and I'm sorry, little girl, I spoke so roughly to 
you ! " 

He held out his fat white hand to me, and as I took it 
he added : " You ought to stay in this business — you've 
got your head with you ! " 

It was a small matter, of course, but there was a faint 
hint of triumph in it, and the savor was very pleasant 
to me. 

Naturally, with a salary of but three dollars a week, we 
turned to the management for our costumes. I wonder 



22 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

what the danseuse of to-day would think of the costume 
worn by her sister of the " sixties " ? Now her few gauzy 
limb-betraying skirts reach but to the middle of the 
thigh ; her scrap of a bodice, cut far below the shoulder- 
blades at the back, being absolutely sleeveless, is pre- 
cariously held in place by a string or two of beads. To 
be sure, she is apt to wear a collar of blazing diamonds, 
instead of the simple band of black velvet that used to be 
sufficient ornament for the peerless Bonfanti and the 
beautiful and modest Betty Rigl, who in their graceful 
ignorance of " splits " and athletic " tours de force," 
managed in their voluminous and knee-long skirts to 
whirl, to glide, to poise and float, to show, in fact, the 
poetry of motion. 

But we, this untrained ballet, were not Bonfantis nor 
Morlachis, and we wore our dancing clothes with a dif- 
ference. In one dance we were supposed to be fairies. 
We wore flesh-colored slippers and tights. It took one 
full week of our two weeks' engagement -to learn how to 
secure these treacherous articles, so that they would re- 
main smooth and not wrinkle d#wn somewhere or twist 
about. One girl never learned, Sid to the last added to 
the happiness of the public by ambling about on a pair of 
legs that looked as if they had been done up in curl papers 
the night before. ■ f 

We each had seven white tarlatan skirts, as full as they 
could be gathered — long enough to come a little below 
the knee. Our waists were also flesh-colored, and were 
cut fully two or three inches below our collar-bones, so 
you see there was plenty of cloth at our backs to hook our 
very immature wings to. We had wreaths of white roses 
on our heads — Blanche, who was very frank, said they 
looked like wreaths of turnips — and garlands of white 
roses to wave in the dance. I remember the girl with 
the curled legs was loathed by all because she lassoed 
everyone she came near with her garland — so you see we 
were very decorous fairies, whether we were decorative 
or not. 



MASTERING TIGHTS 23 

Of course we were rather substantial, and our wings 
did seem too thin and small to sustain us satisfactorily. 
One girl took hers off in the dressing-room and remarked 
contemptuously that " they couldn't lift her cat even ! " 

But another, who was dictatorial and also of a suspi- 
cious nature, answered savagely : " You don't know noth- 
ing about wings — and you haven't got no cat, nohow, 
and you know it — so shut up ! " and the conversation 
closed. 

In our second costume we were frankly human. We 
still wore dancing skirts, but we were in colors, and we 
had, of course, shed our wings — nasty, scratchy things 
they were, I remember. Then for the drill and march we 
wore the regular Fire Zouave uniform. 

It was all great fun for me — you remember I was not 
stage-struck. Dramatically speaking, I was not yet born 
— I had neither ambition nor fear — I was simply happy 
because I was going to earn that, to me, great sum of 
money, and was going to give it to my mother, and 
planned only what I should say to her, and had no thought 
at all of the theatre or anything or any person in it. 

The donning of fleshings for the first time is an occa- 
sion of anxiety to anyone, man or woman. I, however, 
approached the subject of tights with an open mind, and 
Blanche freely gave me both information and advice. 
She chilled my blood by describing the mortifying mis- 
haps, the dread disasters these garments had brought to 
those who failed to understand them. She declared them 
to be tricky, unreliable, and malicious in the extreme. 

' There's just one way to succeed with 'em," she said, 
" and that's by bullying 'em. Show you're afraid and 
they will slip and twist and wrinkle down and make you 
a perfect laughing-stock. You must take your time, you 
know, at first, and fit 'em on very carefully and smoothly 
over your feet and ankles and up over your knees. See 
that they are nice and straight or you'll look as if you 
were walking on corkscrews, but after that bully 'em — 
yank and pull and drag 'em, and when you have 'em drawn 



24 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

up as tight as you can draw 'em, go at 'em and pull 'em 
up another inch at least. They'll creak and snap and pre- 
tend they're going to tear, but don't you ever leave your 
dressing-room satisfied, unless you feel you can't pos- 
sibly get down-stairs without going sideways." 

" But," I remonstrated, " they'll break and let my knees 
through ! " 

" Oh, no they won't ! " she cheerfully answered. 
" They'll make believe they're going to split at the knee, of 
course, but instead they'll just keep as safe and smooth 
as the skin on your arm. But, for Heaven's sake, don't be 
afraid of 'em ! " 

And I gravely promised to be as bold as I possibly 
could in my first encounter with the flesh-colored terrors. 



CHAPTER FIFTH 

I Receive my First Salary — I am Engaged for the Com- 
ing Season. 

AT last the night came. Hot ? Oh, my, hot it was ! 
and we were so crowded in our tiny dressing-room 
that some of us had to stand on the one chair while 
we put our skirts on. The confusion was great, and I was 
glad to get out of the room, down-stairs, where I went to 
show myself to Mrs. Bradshaw or Blanche, to see if I was 
all right. They looked at me, and after a hopeless strug- 
gle with their quivering faces they burst into shrieks of 
laughter. With trembling hands I clutched my tarlatan 
skirts and peering down at my tights, I groaned : " Are 
they twisted, or run down, or what ? " 

But it was not the tights, it was my face. I knew you 
had to put on powder because the gas made you yellow, 
and red because powder made you ghastly, but it had 
not occurred to me that skill was required in applying the 
same, and I was a sight to make any kindly disposed 
angel weep! I had not even sense enough to free my 
eyelashes from the powder clinging to them. My face 
was chalk white and low down on my cheeks were nice 
round bright red spots. 

Mrs. Bradshaw said : " With your round blue eyes and 
your round white-and-red face, you look like a cheap china 
doll ! Come here, my dear ! " 

She dusted off a few thicknesses of the powder, re- 
moved the hard scarlet spots, took a great soft hare's foot, 
which she rubbed over some pink rouge, and then hold- 
ing it in the air she proceeded : " To-morrow, after you 
have walked to get a color, go to your glass and see where 
that color shows itself. I think you will find it high 
on your cheek, coming up close under the eye and grow- 

25 



26 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

ing fainter toward the ear. I'll paint you that way to- 
night on chance. You see my color is low on my cheek. 
Of course when you are making-up for a character part 
you go by a different rule, but when you are just trying 
to look pretty be guided by nature. Now " 

I felt the soft touch of the hare's foot on my burning 
cheeks; then she gave me a tooth-brush, which had 
black on it, and bade me draw it across my lashes. I 
did so and was surprised at the amount of powder it 
removed. She touched her little finger to some red 
pomade, and said: " Thrust out your under lip — no, 
not like a kiss — that makes creases — make a sulky lip 
— so!" 

She touched my lip with her finger, then she drew back 
and laughed again, in a different way. She drew me to 
the glass, and said, " Look ! " 

I looked and cried : "Oh — oh ! Mrs. Bradshaw, that 
girl doesn't look a bit like me — she's ever so much 
nicer! " 

In that lesson on making-up was the beginning and the 
ending of my theatrical instruction. What I have learned 
since then has been by observation, study, and direct in- 
quiry — but never by instruction, either free or paid for. 

Now, while I was engaged to go on with the crowd, 
fate willed after all that I should have an independent en- 
trance for my first appearance on the stage. The matter 
would be too trivial to mention were it not for the in- 
fluence it had upon my future. One act of the play 
represented the back of a stage during a performance. 
The scenes were turned around with their unpainted sides 
to the public. The scene-shifters and gas-men were 
standing about — everything was going wrong. The 
manager was giving orders wildly, and then a dancer was 
late. She was called frantically and finally when she ap- 
peared on the run, the manager caught her by the shoul- 
ders, rushed her across the stage and fairly pitched her 
on the imaginary stage — to the great amusement of the 
audience. 



IMPROMPTU SUBSTITUTING 27 

The tallest and prettiest girl in the ballet had been 
picked out to do this bit of work, and she had been re- 
hearsed and rehearsed as if she were preparing for the 
balcony scene of " Romeo and Juliet " ; and day after day 
the stage-manager would groan: " Can't you run? Did 
you never run? Imagine the house a-fire and that you 
are running for your life ! " 

At last, on that opening night, we were all gathered 
ready for our first entrance and dance, which followed 
a few moments after the incident I have described. The 
tall girl had a queer look on her face as she stood in her 
place — her cue came, but she never moved. 

I heard the rushing footsteps of the stage-manager: 
" That's you ! " he shouted ; " go on ! go on, run ! " 

Run ? She seemed to have grown fast to the floor. We 
heard the angry aside of the actor on the stage : " Send 
•someone on here — for Heaven's sake ! " 

" Are you going on ? " cried the frantic prompter. 

She dropped her arms limply at her sides and whis- 
pered : " I — I — c-a-n-t ! " 

He turned, and as he ran his imploring eye over the 
line of faces, each girl shrank back from it. He reached 
me — I had no fear, and he saw it. " Can you go on 
there?" he cried. I nodded. "Then for God's sake 
go!" 

I gave a bound and a rush that carried me half across 
the stage before the manager caught me — and so I made 
my entrance on the stage, and danced and marched and 
sang with the rest, and all unconsciously took my first 
step upon the path that I was to follow through shadow 
and through sunshine — to follow by steep and stony 
places, over threatening bogs, through green and pleasant 
meadows — to follow steadily and faithfully for many 
and many a year to come. 

On our first salary day, to the surprise of all concerned, 
I did not go to claim my week's pay. To everyone who 
spoke to me of the matter, I simply answered : " Oh, that 
will be all right." When the second day came I was 



28 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

the last to present myself at the box-office window. Mr. 
Ellsler was there and he opened the door and asked me 
to come in. As I signed my name on the salary list I 
hesitated perceptibly and he laughingly said : " Don't you 
know your own name ? " Now on the first day of all, 
when the stage-manager had taken down our names, I 
had been gazing at the scenery and when he called out: 
" Little girl, what is your name ? " I had not heard, and 
someone standing by had said : " Her name is Clara — 
Clara Morris, or Morrisey, or Morrison, or something like 
that," and he dropped the last syllable from my name 
Morrison, and wrote me down Morris; so when Mr. 
Ellsler put his question, " Don't you know your name? " 
that was certainly the moment when I should have spoken 
— but I was too shy, and there and thereafter held my 
peace, and have been in consequence Clara Morris ever 
since. 

I having signed for and received my two weeks' salary, 
Mr. Ellsler asked why I had not come the week before, 
and I told him I preferred to wait because it would seem 
so much more if I got both weeks' salary all at one time. 
And he gravely nodded and said " it was rather a large 
sum to have in hand at one time " — and, though I was 
very sensitive to ridicule, I did not suspect him of mak- 
ing fun of me. 

Then he said : " You are a very intelligent little girl, 
and when you went on alone and unrehearsed the other 
night you proved you had both adaptability and courage. 
I'd like to keep you in the theatre. Will you come and 
be a regular member of the company for the season that 
begins in September next ? " 

I think it must have been my ears that finally stopped 
my ever-widening smile while I made answer that I 
must ask my mother first. 

" To be sure," said he, " to be sure ! Well, suppose 
you ask her, then, and let me know whether you can 
or not." 
, Looking back and speaking calmly, I must admit 



MY FIRST EARNINGS 29 

that I do not now believe that Mr. Ellsler's financial 
future depended entirely upon the yes or no of my 
mother and myself; but that I was on an errand of life 
or death everyone must have thought who saw me tear- 
ing through the streets on that 90-in-the-shade summer 
day, racing along in a whirl of short skirts, with the 
boyish, self-kicking gait peculiar to running girls of 
thirteen. 

One man, a tailor, ran out hatless and coatless and 
looked up the street anxiously in the direction from 
which I came. A big boy on the corner yelled after 
me: " S-a-a-y, Sis, where's the fire?" but you see they 
did not know that I was carrying home my first earn- 
ings — that I was clutching six damp one-dollar bills in 
the hands that had been so empty all my life ! Poor 
little hands that had never held a greater sum than one 
big Canadian penny, that had never held a dollar bill 
till they had first earned it. But if the boy was blind 
to what I held, so was I blind to what the future held — 
which made us equal. 

I had meant to take off my hat and smooth my hair, 
and in a decorous and proper manner approach my 
mother and deliver my nice little speech, and then hand 
her the money. But, alas ! as I rushed into the house I 
came upon her unexpectedly — for, fearing dinner was 
going to be late, she was hurrying things by shelling a 
great basket of peas as she sat by the dining-room win- 
dow. At sight of her tired face, all my nicely planned 
speech disappeared. I flung my arm about her neck, 
dropped the bills on top of the empty pods, and cried 
with beautiful lucidity : " Oh, mother ! that's mine — 
and it's all yours ! " 

She kissed me, but to my grieved amazement put the 
money back into my hand, folding my four stiff, un- 
willing fingers over it, as she said : " No, you have 
earned this money yourself — you are the only one who 
has the right to use it — you are to do with it exactly 
as you please." 



3 o LIFE ON THE STAGE 

And while tears of disappointment were yet swim- 
ming in my eyes, triumph sprang up in my heart at 
her last words; for if I could do exactly as I pleased, 
why, after all, she should have the new summer dress 
she needed so badly. So I took the money to our room, 
and having secreted it in the most intricate and involved 
manner I could think of, I returned and laid Mr. Ellsler's 
offer before my mother, who at first hesitated, but learn- 
ing that Mrs. Bradshaw was engaged for another sea- 
son, she finally consented, and I rushed back to the 
theatre, where, red and hot and out of breath, I was en- 
gaged for the ballet for the next season. After this I 
was conscious of a new feeling, which I would have 
found it very hard to explain then. It was not impor- 
tance, it was not vanity, it was a pleasant feeling, it lifted 
the head and gave one patience to bear calmly many 
things that had been very hard to bear. I know now it was 
the self-respect that comes to everyone who is a bread- 
winner. 

Directly after breakfast next day I was off to get 
my mother's dress. I went quite alone, and my head 
was well in the air; for this was indeed an important 
occasion. I looked long and felt gravely at the edges 
of the goods, I did not know what for, but I had seen 
other people do it, and when my lavender-flowered muslin 
was cut off, done up and paid for, I found quite a large 
hole in my six dollars; for it was war time, and any- 
thing made of cotton cost a dreadful price. But, good 
Heaven ! how happy I was, and how proud that I should 
get a dress for my mother, instead of her getting one for 
me ! Undoubtedly, had there been a fire just then, I would 
have risked my life to save that flowered muslin gown. 

I had not been more than two or three days in the 
theatre when I discovered that its people seemed to be 
divided into two distinct parties — the guyers and the 
guyed — those who laughed and those who were laughed 
at. All my life I have had a horror of practical joking, 
and I very quickly decided I would not be among the 



WOULDN'T BE "GUYED" 31 

guyed. I had borrowed many of Mrs. Bradshaw's play 
books to read, and often found in the directions for cos- 
tumes the old word " ibid." " Count Rudolph — black 
velvet doublet, hose and short cloak. Count Adolph, 
ibid." So when the property-man, an incorrigible joker, 
asked me to go home and borrow Mrs. Bradshaw's ibid 
for him, I simply looked at him and smiled a broad, 
silent smile and never moved a peg. He gave me a 
sharp look, then affecting great anger at my laziness, he 
wrote a request for an ibid and gave it to the fattest 
girl in the crowd, and she carried it to Mrs. Bradshaw, 
who wrote on it that her ibid was at Mrs. Dickson's, 
and the fat girl went to Mrs. Dickson's, who said she 
had lent it to Mr. Lewis — so the poor fat goose was 
kept waddling through the heat, from one place to an- 
other, until she was half dead, to the great enjoyment of 
the property-man. 

Next day he was very busy, when, glancing up, he 
saw me looking on at his work. Instantly he caught 
up a bottle, and said : " Run upstairs to the paint-frame 
(three flights up) and ask the painter to put a little 
ad-libitum in this bottle for me — there's a good girl ! " 

Now I did not yet know what ad-libitum meant, but 
I was a very close observer, and I saw the same malicious 
twinkle in his eye that had shone there when he had 
sent the fat girl on her hot journey, and once more I 
slowly chewed my gum, and smiled my wide, unbelieving 
smile. He waited a moment, but as I did not touch the 
bottle he tossed it aside, saying : " What a suspicious 
little devil you are ! " 

But when a man wanted me to blow down a gun- 
barrel next morning, the property-man exclaimed: 
" Here, you ! let saucer-eyes alone ! I don't know whether 
she gets her savey out of her head or chews it out of 
her gum, but she don't guy worth a cent, so you needn't 
try to put anything on to her ! " 

And from that day to this I have been free from the 
attacks of the practical joker. 



CHAPTER SIXTH 

The Regular Season Opens — I have a Small Part to 
Play — I am among Lovers of Shakespeare — I too 
Stand at his Knee and Fall under the Charm. 

UP to this time the only world I had known had been 
narrow and sordid and lay chill under the shadow 
of poverty ; and it is sunlight that makes the earth 
smile into flower and fruit and laugh aloud through the 
throats of birds. But now, standing humbly at the knee 
of Shakespeare, I began to learn something of another 
world — fairy-like in fascination, marvellous in reality. 
A world of sunny days and jewelled nights, of splendid 
palaces, caves of horror, forests of mystery, and meadows 
of smiling candor. All peopled, too, with such soldiers, 
statesmen, lovers, clowns, such women of splendid chill 
chastity, fierce ambition, thistle-down lightness, and 
burning, tragic love as made the heart beat fast to think 
of. 

Perhaps if I had attempted simply to read Shakespeare 
at that time, I might have fallen short both in profit and 
in pleasure; but it was the hearing him that roused my 
attention. There was such music in the sound of the 
words, that the mind was impelled to study out their 
meaning. It seems to me that a human voice is to poetry 
what a clear even light is to a reader, making each word 
give up its full store of meaning. 

At that time Forrest, crowned and wrapped in royal 
robes, was yet tottering on his throne. Charlotte Cush- 
man was the Tragic Queen of the stage. Mr. James Mur- 
doch, frail and aging, but still acting, was highly esteemed. 
Joseph Jefferson, E. L. Davenport, J. K. Hackett, Edwin 
Adams, John E. Owens, Dan. Setchell, Peter Richings 
and his daughter Caroline, Mrs. D. P. Bowers, Miss 

32 



EARLY AMERICAN ACTORS 33 

Lucille Western, Miss Maggie Mitchell, Mr. and Mrs. 
Conway, Matilda Heron, Charles Couldock, Joseph Proc- 
tor, Mr. and Mrs. Albaugh, Mr. and Mrs. Barney Will- 
iams, the Webb Sisters, Kate Reynolds, were all great 
favorites, not pausing to mention many more, while Edwin 
Booth, the greatest light of all, was rising in golden glory 
in the East. 

Of the above-mentioned twenty-eight stars, eighteen 
acted in Shakespeare's plays. All stars played a week's 
engagement — many played two weeks, therefore at least 
twenty-four of our forty-two week season was given over 
to Shakespearean productions, and every actor and actress 
had the Bard at their tongue's tip. 

In the far past the great disgrace of our profession was 
the inebriety of its men. At the time I write of, the sever- 
ity of the managers had nearly eradicated the terrible 
habit, and I never saw but two of that class of brilliant 
actor-drunkards, beloved of newspaper story writers, who 
made too much of their absurd vagaries. 

Looking back to the actors of '65, I can't help noticing 
the difference between their attitude of mind toward their 
profession, and that of the actor of to-day. Salaries were 
much smaller then, work was harder, but life was simpler. 
The actor had no social standing; he was no longer looked 
down upon, but he was an unknown quantity; he was, in 
short, an actor pure and simple. He had enthusiasm for 
his profession — he lived to act, not merely living by act- 
ing. He had more superstition than religion, and no 
politics at all; but he was patriotic and shouldered his gun 
and marched away in the ranks as cheerfully as any other 
citizen soldier. 

But above all and beyond all else, the men and women 
respected their chosen profession. Their constant associa- 
tion of mind with Shakespeare seemed to have given 
them a certain dignity of bearing as well as of speech. 

To-day our actors have in many cases won some social 
recognition, and they must therefore give a portion of 
their time to social duties. They are clubmen and another 



34 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

portion of their time goes in club lounging. They draw 
large salaries and too frequently they have to act in long 
running plays, that are made up of smartish wit and cheap- 
est cynicism — mere froth and frivolity, while the effective 
smashing of the Seventh Commandment has been for so 
long a time the principal motif of both drama and farce, 
that one cannot wonder much at the general tone of flip- 
pancy prevailing among the theatrical people of to-day. 
They guy everything and everybody, and would jeer at 
their profession as readily as they would at an old man on 
the street wearing a last year's hat. 

They are sober, they are honest, they are generous, but 
they seem to have grown utterly flippant, and I can't help 
wondering if this alteration can have come about through 
the change in their mental pabulum. 

At all events, as I watched and listened in the old days, 
it seemed to me they were never weary of discussing read- 
ings, expressions, emphasis, and action. One would re- 
mark, say at a rehearsal of " Hamlet," that Macready 
gave a certain line in this manner, and another would in- 
stantly express a preference for a Forrest — or a Daven- 
port — rendering, and then the argument would be on, 
and only a call to the stage would end the weighing of 
words, the placing of commas, etc. 

I well remember my first step into theatrical con- 
troversy. " Macbeth " was being rehearsed, and the star 
had just exclaimed: " Hang out our banners on the out- 
ward walls ! " That was enough — argument was on. It 
grew animated. Some were for: "Hang out our ban- 
ners ! on the outward walls the cry is still : they come ! " 
while one or two were with the star's reading. 

I stood listening and looking on and fairly sizzling with 
hot desire to speak, but dared not take the liberty, I stood 
in such awe of my elders. Presently the " old-man " 
turned and, noticing my eagerness, laughingly said: 
" Well, what is it, Clara ? you'll have a fit if you don't 
ease your mind with speech." 

" Oh, Uncle Dick," I answered, my words fairly trip- 



MY OPINION IS ASKED 35 

ping over each other in my haste. " I have a picture 
home, I cut it out of a paper, it's a picture of a great castle, 
with towers and moats and things, and on the outer walls 
there are men with spears and shields, and they seem to 
be looking for the enemy, and, Uncle Dick, the banner is 
floating over the high tower! " 

" Where it ought to be," interpolated the old gentleman, 
who was English. 

" So," I went on, " don't you think it ought to be read: 
'Hang out our banners! on the outward walls' — the 
outward walls, you know, is where the lookout are stand- 
ing — ' the cry — is still, they come ! ' " 

A general laugh followed my excited explanation, but 
Uncle Dick patted me very kindly on the shoulder, and 
said : " Good girl ! you stick to your picture — it's right 
and so are you. Many people read the line that way, but 
you have worked it out for yourself, and that's a good 
plan to follow." 

And I swelled and swelled, it seemed to me, I was so 
proud of the gentle old man's approval. But that same 
night I came quite wofully to grief. I had been one of 
the crowd of " witches " ; I had also had my place at that 
shameless papier-mache banquet given by Macbeth to his 
tantalized guests, and then, being off duty, was, as us- 
ual, planted in the entrance, watching the acting of the 
grown-up and the grown-great. Lady Macbeth was giv- 
ing the sleep-walking scene. Her method was of the old, 
old school. She spoke at almost the full power of her 
lungs, throughout that mysterious, awe-inspiring sleep- 
walking scene. It jarred upon my feelings — I could not 
have told why, but it did. I believed myself alone, and 
when the memory-haunted woman roared out : " Yet, who 
would have thought the old man to have had so much 
blood in him? " I remarked, sotto voce: " Did you ex- 
pect to find ink in him ? " 

A sharp " ahem ! " right at my shoulder told me I had 
been overheard, and I turned to face — oh, horror! the 
stage-manager. He glared angrily at me, and began: 



36 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" Since when have the ladies of the ballet taken to criti- 
cising the work of the stars ? " 

Humbly enough, I said : " I beg your pardon, sir, I 
was just talking to myself, that was all." 

But he went on : " Oh, you would not criticize a read- 
ing, unless you could better it — so pray favor us with 
your ideas on this speech ! " 

Each sneering word cut me to the heart. Tears filled 
my eyes. I struggled hard to keep them from falling, 
while I just murmured: " I beg your pardon! " Again 
he demanded my reading, saying they were not " too 
old to learn," and in sheer desperation, I exclaimed: " I 
was only speaking to myself, but I thought Lady Macbeth 
was amazed at the quantity of blood that flowed from the 
body of such an old man — for when you get old, you 
know, sir, you don't have so much blood as you used to, 
and I only just thought, that as the ' sleeping men were 
laced/ and the knives ' smeared,' and her hands ' bathed ' 
with it, she might have perhaps whispered : ' Yet, who 
would have thought the old man to have had so much 
blood in him?' I didn't mean an impertinence!" and 
down fell the tears, for I could not talk and hold them 
back at the same time. 

He looked at me in dead silence for a few moments, then 
he said : " Humph ! " and walked away, while I rushed 
to the dressing-room and cried and cried, and vowed that 
never, never again would I talk to myself — in the theatre 
at all events. I mention these incidents to show how 
quickly I came under the influence of these Shakespeare- 
studying men and women, some of whom had received 
their very adequate education from him alone. 

It was odd to hear how they used his words and expres- 
sions in their daily conversation. Twas not so much 
quoting him intentionally, as it was an unconscious incor- 
poration into their own language of Shakespeare's lines. 

Tramps were to them almost always " vagrom men." 
When one did some very foolish thing, he almost surely 
begged to be " written down an ass." The appearance of 



UNCONSCIOUS IMITATION 37 

a pretty actress in her new spring or fall gown was as 
surely nailed with: " The riches of the ship have come on 
shore! " 

I saw a pet dog break for the third time from restraint 
to follow his master, who put his hand on the animal's 
head and rather worriedly remarked : " ' The love that fol- 
lows us sometimes is our trouble — which still ' " (with a 
big sigh) " ' we thank as love! ' But you'll have to go 
back, old fellow, all the same." If someone obliged you, 
and you expressed the fear that you had given him 
trouble, he would be absolutely certain to reply, pleas- 
antly and quite honestly : " The labor we delight in 
physics pain ! " And so on and on unendingly. And I al- 
most believe that had an old actor seen these three great 
speeches: The " seven ages " of man, " To be or not to 
be!" and "Othello's occupation's gone," grouped to- 
gether, he would have fallen upon his knees and become 
an idolator there and then. 

Yes, I found them odd people, but I liked them. The 
world was brightening for me, and I felt I had a right to 
my share of the air and light, and as much of God's earth 
as my feet could stand upon. 

I had had a little part entrusted to me, too, the very first 
week of the season. A young backwoods-boy, Tom 
Bruce, by name, and I had borrowed some clothes and 
had slammed about with my gun, and spoken my few 
words out loud and clear, and had met with approving 
looks, if not words, but not yet was the actress aroused in 
me, I was still a mere school-girl reciting her lessons. 
My proudest moment had been when I was allowed to go 
on for the longest witch in the cauldron scene in " Mac- 
beth." Perhaps I might have come to grief over it had 
I not overheard the leading man say: "That child will 
never speak those lines in the world!" and the leading 
man was six feet tall and handsome, and I was thirteen 
and a half years old, and had to be called a " child ! " 

I was in a secret rage, and I went over and over my 
lines, at all hours, under all kinds of circumstances, so that 



38 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

nothing should be able to frighten me at night. And then, 
with my paste-board crown and white sheet and petticoat, 
I boiled-up in the cauldron and gave my lines well enough 
for the manager (who was Hecate just then) to say low, 
" Good ! Good ! " and the leading man next night asked 
me to take care of his watch and chain during his combat 
scene, and my pride of bearing was most unseemly, and 
the other ballet-girls loved me not at all, for you see they, 
too, knew he was six feet tall and handsome. 



CHAPTER SEVENTH 

I find I am in a u Family Theatre " — I Fare Forth 
away from my Mother, and in Columbus I Shelter 
under the wing of Mrs. Bradshaw. 

THIS theatre in which I found myself was, in pro- 
fessional parlance, a family theatre, a thing ab- 
horred by many, especially by actresses. Not much 
wonder either, for even as the green bay tree flourisheth 
in the psalm, so does nepotism flourish in the family 
theatre ; and when it's a case of the managerial Monsieur, 
Madame, et Bebes all acting, many are the tears, sobs, 
and hot words that follow upon the absorption by these 
three of all the good parts, while all the poor ones are 
placed with strictest justice where they belong. At that 
time men and women were engaged each for a special 
" line of business," and to ask anyone to act outside of 
his " line " was an offence not lightly passed over. 

For the benefit of those who may not be familiar with 
theatrical terms of procedure, I will state that a company 
was generally made up of a leading man (heroes, of 
course), first old man, second old man, heavy man, first 
comedian, second comedian, juvenile man, walking gen- 
tleman, and utility man. 

That term, " heavy man," of course had no reference 
to the actor's physical condition, but it generally implied 
a deep voice, heavy eyebrows, and a perfect willingness 
to stab in the back or smilingly to poison the wine of the 
noblest hero or the fairest heroine in the business ; so the 
professional player of villains was a heavy man. 

The juvenile man may have left juvenility far, far be- 
hind him in reality, but if his back was flat, his eyes large 

39 



4 o LIFE ON THE STAGE 

and hair good ; he would support old mothers, be falsely 
accused of thefts, and win wealthy sweethearts in last acts, 
with great eclat — as juvenile men were expected to do. 

Walking gentlemen didn't walk all the time ; truth to 
tell, they stood about and pretended a deep interest in 
other people's affairs, most of the time. They were those 
absent Pauls or Georges that are talked about continually 
by sweethearts or friends or irate fathers, and finally ap- 
pear just at the end of everything, simply to prove they 
really do exist, and to hold a lady's hand, while the cur- 
tain falls on the characters, all nicely lined up and bowing 
like toy mandarins. 

The utility man was generally not a man, but a large, 
gloomy boy, whose mustache would not grow, and whose 
voice would crack over the few lines he was invited to 
address to the public. He sometimes led mobs, but more 
often made brief statements as to the whereabouts of cer- 
tain carriages — and therein laid his claim to utility. 

Then came the leading lady, the first old woman (who 
was sometimes the heavy woman), the first singing sou- 
brette, the walking ladies, the second soubrette (and boys' 
parts), the utility woman, and the ladies of the ballet. 
These were the principal " lines of business," and in an 
artistic sense they bound actors both hand and foot ; so 
utterly inflexible were they that the laws of the Medes 
and Persians seemed blithe and friendly things in com- 
parison. 

" Oh, I can't play that ; it's not in my line ! " " Oh, 
yes, I sing, but the singing don't belong to my line ! " " I 
know, he looks the part and I don't, but it belongs to 
my line ! " and so, nearly every week, some performance 
used to be marred by the slavish clinging to these defined 
" lines of business." 

Mr. Augustin Daly was the first manager who dared to 
ignore the absolute " line." " You must trust my judg- 
ment to cast you for the characters you are best suited to 
perform, and you must trust my honor not to lower or 
degrade you, by casting you below your rightful position, 



THE FAMILY THEATRE 41 

for I will not be hampered and bound by any fixed 
4 lines of business.' ,! So said he to all would-be members 
of his company. The pill was a trifle bitter in the swal- 
lowing, as most pills are, but it was so wholesome in its 
effect that ere long other managers were following Mr. 
Daly's example. 

But to return to our mutton. If the family theatre was 
disliked by those who had already won recognized posi- 
tions, it was at least an ideal place in which a young girl 
could begin her professional life. The manager, Mr. John 
A. Ellsler, was an excellent character-actor as well as a 
first old man. His wife, Mrs. Effie Ellsler, was his lead- 
ing woman — his daughter Effie, though not out of 
school at that time, acted whenever there was a very good 
part that suited her. The first singing soubrette was the 
wife of the prompter and the stage-manager. The first 
old woman was the mother of the walking lady, and so it 
came about that there was not even the pink flush of a 
flirtation over the first season, and, though another season 
was shaken and thrilled through and through by the elope- 
ment and marriage of James Lewis with Miss Frankie 
Hurlburt, a young lady from private life in Cleveland, yet 
in all the years I served in that old theatre, no real scandal 
ever smirched it. 

True, one poor little ballet-girl fell from our ranks and 
was drawn into that piteous army of women, who, with 
silk petticoats and painted cheeks, seek joy in the bottom 
of the wine cup. Poor little soul! how we used to lock 
the dressing-room door and lower our voices when we 
spoke of having seen her. 

I can never be grateful enough for having come under 
the influence of the dear woman who watched over me that 
first season — Mrs. Bradshaw, one of the most versatile, 
most earnest, most devoted actresses I ever saw, and a 
good woman besides. 

She had known sorrow, trouble, and loss. She was 
widowed, she had two children to support unaided, but 
she made moan to no one. She worked early and late; 



42 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

she rehearsed, studied, acted, mended, and made; for her 
salary absolutely forbade the services of a dress-maker. 
She had two gowns a year, one thick, one thin. She could 
not herself compute the age of her bonnets, so often were 
they blocked over, or dyed and retrimmed. Yet no better 
appearing woman ever entered a stage-door than this ex- 
cessively neat, well-groomed, though plainly clad, old 
actress. 

It is not to be denied that a great many professional 
women are absolutely without the sense of order. Their 
irregular hours, their unsettled mode of life, camping out 
a few days in this hotel and then in that in a measure ex- 
plain it, but Mrs. Bradshaw set an example of neat order- 
liness that was well worth following. 

" I can't see," she used to say, " why an actress should 
be a slattern." 

Then if anyone murmured : " Early rehearsals, great 
haste, you know!" she would answer: " You know at 
night the hour of morning rehearsal — then get up fif- 
teen minutes earlier, and leave your room in order. Every- 
thing an actress does is commented upon, and as she is 
more or less an object of suspicion, her conduct should be 
even more rigidly correct than that of other women." 
She had been a beauty in her youth, as her regular 
features still proclaimed, and though her figure had be- 
come almost Falstaffian, her graceful arm movements and 
the dignity of her carriage saved her from being in the 
slightest degree grotesque. The secret of her smiling 
contentment was her honest love for her work. 

We had one taste in common — this experienced woman 
and my now fourteen-year-old self — books ! books ! and 
yet books, we read. I borrowed from my friends and she 
also read — she borrowed from her friends and I, too, 
read, and she came to speak of them, and then of her own 
ideas, and so I found that this woman, already on the way 
to age, who was so poor and hard-working, and had noth- 
ing to look forward to but work, was yet cheerfully con- 
tented, because she loved the work — yes, and honored it, 



REMOVAL TO COLUMBUS 43 

and held her head high, because she was an actress with 
a clean reputation ! 

" Study your lines — speak them with exactitude, just 
as they are written ! " she used to say to me, with a sort 
of passion in her voice. 

" Don't just gather the idea of a speech, and then use 
your own words, that's an infamous habit. The author 
knew what he wanted you to say — for God's sake honor 
the poor dead writer's wishes and speak his lines exactly 
as he wrote them! If he says: 'My lord the carriage 
waits ! ' don't you go on and say : ' My lord the carriage 
is waiting ! ' " 

I almost believe she would have fallen in a dead faint 
had she been prompted, and to have been late to a re- 
hearsal would have been a shame greater than she could 
have borne. To this woman's example, I owe the strict 
business-like habits of attention to study and rehearsals 
that have won so much praise for me from my managers. 

Had Mr. Ellsler's intention of taking his company to 
another city for a great part of the season been known in 
advance, my mother would never have given consent to 
my membership; but the season was three months old 
before we knew that we were to be transferred to Colum- 
bus, the State capital, where we were to remain, while the 
Legislature sat in large arm-chairs, passing bad bills, and 
killing good ones, for some three months or more — at 
least that was the ordinary citizen's opinion of the conduct 
of the State's wise men. It seemed to me that when a man 
paid his taxes he felt he had purchased the right to grum- 
ble at his representatives to his heart's content. 

But that move to Columbus was a startling event in my 
life. It meant leaving my mother and standing quite 
alone. She was filled with anxiety, principally for my 
physical welfare, but I felt, every now and then, my grief 
and fright pierced through and through with a delicious 
thrill of importance. I was going to be just like a grown- 
up, and would decide for myself what I should wear. I 
might even,. if I chose to become so reckless, wear my 



44 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Sunday hat to a rehearsal; and when my cheap little 
trunk came, with C. M. on the end, showing it was my 
very own, I stooped down and hugged it. But later, 
when my mother with a sad face separated my garments 
from her own, taking them from her trunk, where they 
had always rested before, I burst into sobs and tears of 
utter forlornness. 

The Columbus trip had a special effect upon the affairs 
of the ballet. We had received $3 a week salary, but every 
one of us had had some home assistance. Now we were 
going to a strange city, and no one on earth could manage 
to live on such a salary as that, so our stipend was raised 
to $5 a week, and the three of us (we were but three that 
season) set to work trying to solve the riddle of how a 
girl was to pay her board-bill, her basket-bill, her wash- 
bill, and all the small expenses of the theatre — powder, 
paint, soap, hair-pins, etc., to say nothing at all of shoes 
and clothing — all out of $5 a week. 

Of course there was but one way to do it, and that was 
by doubling-up and sharing a room with some one, and 
that first season I was very lucky. Mrs. Bradshaw found 
a house where the top floor had been finished off as one 
great long room, running the entire length of the building 
from gable to gable, and she offered me a share in it. 

Oh, I was glad ! Blanche and I had one-half the room, 
and Mrs. Bradshaw and the irrepressible little torment and 
joy of her life, small Jack, had the other half. No wonder 
I grew to reverence her, whose character could bear such 
intimate association as that. I don't know what her re- 
ligious beliefs were. She read her Bible Sundays, but she 
never went to church, neither did she believe in a material 
hell ; but it was not long before I discovered that when I 
said my prayers over in my corner, she paused in what- 
ever she was doing, and remained with downcast eyes — 
a fact that made me scramble a bit, I'm afraid. 

There was but one thing in our close companionship 
that caused her pain, and that was the inevitable belief of 
strangers, that I was her daughter and Blanche her pro- 



A NEW "PLAYER-QUEEN" 45 

tegee — they being misled by the difference in our manner 
toward her. In the severity of my upbringing I had been 
taught that it was nothing short of criminal to be lacking 
in respect for those who were older than myself; therefore 
I was not only strictly obedient to her expressed wishes, 
but I rose when she entered a room, opened and closed 
doors, placed chairs at table, gave her precedence on all 
occasions, and served her in such small ways as were 
possible; while Blanche ignored her to such a degree that 
one might have mistaken her for a stranger to our little 
party. 

Poor mother! the tears stood thick in her brave eyes 
when the landlady, on our third day in her house, re- 
marked to her, patting me on the shoulder as she spoke: 
" You have a most devoted little daughter, here! " 

And there was a distinct pause, before she answered, 
gently: "You mistake — I have a devoted little friend 
here, in Clara, but Blanche is my daughter!" She was 
a singular being, that daughter. It is seldom indeed that 
a girl, who is not bad, can yet be such a thorn in the 
side of a mother. She was a most disconcerting, baffling 
creature — a tricksy, elfish spirit, that delighted in ma- 
licious fun. Pleasure-loving, indolent, and indifferent 
alike to praise or blame, she (incredible as it seems) would 
willingly give up a good part to save herself the trouble 
of playing it. I recall a trick she once performed in my 
favor. I thought the Player-Queen in " Hamlet " was a 
beautiful part, and I hungered to play it ; but it belonged 
to Blanche, and, of course, she was cast for it; but said 
she: " You could have it, for all I'd care! " Then, sud- 
denly, she added: " Say, you may play it with the next 
Hamlet that comes along ! " 

I pointed out the impossibility of such an assertion 
coming true, but she grinned widely at me and chewed her 
gum as one who knew many things beyond my ken, and 
counselled me to " watch out and see what happened." 
I watched out, and this happened: 

When the mimic-play was going on before the King 



46 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

and Court, my impish friend Blanche, as the Player- 
Quccn, should have said: " Both here and hence, pursue 
me lasting strife, if once a widow, ever I be wife ! ' 

Instead of which, loudly and distinctly, she proclaimed: 
" Both here and hence, pursue me lasting strife, if once 
a zvife, ever I be widowed! " 

Hamlet rolled over on his face, Queen Gertrude (Mrs. 
Bradshaw) groaned aloud, Polonins (Mr. Ellsler) threat- 
ened discharge, under cover of the laughter of the audi- 
ence, while guilty Blanche grinned in impish enjoyment 
of her work, and next " Hamlet " I was cast for the 
Player-Queen, to punish Blanche. To punish her, indeed 

— she was as merry as a sand-boy, standing about chew- 
ing gum and telling stories all the evening. 

The " tatting " craze was sweeping over the country 
then, everybody wore tatting and almost everybody made 
it. I worked day and night at it, tatting at rehearsal 
and between scenes, and lady-stars often bought my work, 
to my great pleasure as well as profit. Blanche wanted 
a new shuttle, and her mother, who was under extra ex- 
pense just then, told her she could have it the next week. 
It was shortly before Christmas, and next morning 
at rehearsal, with all the company present, Blanche 
walked up to Mr. Ellsler and asked him if he had any 
money. 

He looked bewildered, and answered somewhat doubt- 
fully that he thought he had a little. " Well," said she, 
" I want you to give me a quarter, so I can get you a 
Christmas present." 

There was a burst of laughter as Mr. Ellsler handed 
her the quarter, and after rehearsal this is what she did 
with it: 

On Superior Street a clothing store was being sold out 

— a forced sale. There she bought a black shoe-string 
tie for five cents, as a gift for Mr. Ellsler, and elsewhere 
got for herself a tatting-shuttle and five pieces of chew- 
ing-gum^ and chuckled over her caper, quite undisturbed 
by her mother's tears. 



MR. ELLSLER'S PRESENT 47 

One thing only moved her, one thing only she loved, 
music ! She had a charming voice, clear, pure, and cold 
as crystal, and she sang willingly, nay, even eagerly, when- 
ever she had the opportunity. In after years she became 
a well-known singer in light opera. 



CHAPTER EIGHTH 

I Display my New Knowledge — I Return to Cleveland 
to Face my First Theatrical Vacation, and I Know 
the very Tragedy of Littleness. 

DURING that first season I learned to stand alone, 
to take care of myself and my small belongings 
without admonition from anyone. One of my no- 
tions was that, since an immortal soul had to dwell in 
my body, it became my bounden duty to bestow upon it 
regular and painstaking care in honor of its tenant. The 
idea may seem extravagant, yet it served me well, since 
it did for me what a mother's watchful supervision does 
for other little girls when habits are being formed. 

I had learned, too, most of the technical terms used in 
the profession. I knew all about footlights, wings, flies, 
borders, drops, braces, grooves, traps, etc. I understood 
the queer abbreviations. Knew that O.P. side was op- 
posite the prompt side, where the prompter stood with 
his book of the play to give the word to any actor whose 
memory failed him and to ring the two bells for the close 
of the act — one of warning to the curtain-man up aloft 
to get ready, the other for him to lower the curtain. 
Knew that R.U.E. and L.U.E. were right or left upper 
entrance ; C, centre of the stage ; R.C., right of centre ; 
CD., centre-door. That to go D.S. or U.S. was an in- 
timation that you would do well to go down stage or up 
stage, while an X. to C. was a terse request for you to 
cross to the centre of the stage, and that a whole lot of 
other letters meant a whole lot of other directions that 
would only bore a reader. 

I understood how many illusions were produced, and 
one of the proofs that I was meant to be an actress was 

4 8 



MRS. BRADSHAW'S ASCENT 49 

to be found in my enjoyment of the mechanism of stage 
effects. I was always on hand when a storm had to be 
worked, and would grind away with a will at the crank 
that, turning a wheel against a tight band of silk, made 
the sound of a tremendously shrieking wind, which filled 
me with pride and personal satisfaction. And no one 
sitting in front of the house looking at a white-robed 
woman ascending to heaven, apparently floating upward 
through the blue clouds, enjoyed the spectacle more than 
I enjoyed looking at the ascent from the rear, where I 
could see the tiny iron support for her feet, the rod at 
her back with the belt holding her securely about the 
waist (just as though she were standing on a large hoe, 
with the handle at her back), and the men hoisting her 
through the air, with a painted, sometimes moving, sky 
behind her. 

This reminds me that Mrs. Bradshaw had several 
times to go to heaven (dramatically speaking), and as 
her figure and weight made the hoe support useless in 
her case, she always went to heaven on the entire paint- 
frame or gallery, as it is called — a long platform the 
whole width of the stage that is raised and lowered at will 
by windlass, and on which the artists stand while paint- 
ing scenery. This enormous affair would be cleaned 
and hung about with nice blue clouds, and then Mrs. 
Bradshaw, draped in long, white robes, with hands meekly 
crossed upon her ample breast and eyes piously uplifted, 
would rise heavenward, slowly, as so heavy an angel 
should. But, alas ! there was one drawback to this other- 
wise perfect ascension. Never, so long as the theatre 
stood, could that windlass be made to work silently. The 
paint-gallery always moved up or down to a succession 
of screaks unoilable, untamable, blood-curdling, that were 
intensified by Mrs. Bradshaw's weight, so that she as- 
cended to the blue tarlatan empyrean accompanied by such 
chugs and long-drawn yowlings as suggested a trip to 
the infernal regions. Mrs. Bradshaw's face remained 
calm and unmoved, but now and then an agonized moan 



50 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

escaped her, lest even the orchestra's effort to cover up 
the paint-frame's protesting cries should prove useless. 
Poor woman, when she had been lowered again to terra 
firma and stepped off, the whole paint-frame would give 
a kind of joyous upward spring. She noticed it, and one 
evening looked back, and said : " Oh, you're not a bit 
more glad than I am, you screaking wretch ! " 

I had learned to make up my face properly, to dress 
my hair in various ways, and was beginning to know 
something about correct costuming; but as the season 
was drawing to its close my heart quaked and I was sick 
with fear, for I was facing, for the first time, that terror, 
that affliction of the actor's life, the summer vacation. 

People little dream what a period of misery that is to 
many stage folk. Seeing them well dressed, laughing 
and talking lightly with the acquaintances they meet on 
the street, one little suspects that the gnawing pain of 
hunger may be busy with their stomachs — that a wom- 
an's fainting " because of the extreme heat, you know," 
was really caused by want of food. That the fresh hand- 
kerchiefs are of their own washing. That the garments 
are guarded with almost inconceivable care, and are only 
worn on the street, some older articles answering in their 
lodgings — and that it is not vanity, but business, for a 
manager is not attracted by a seedy or a shabby-looking 
applicant for an engagement. 

Oh, the weary, weary miles the poor souls walk ! with 
not a penny in their pockets. They are compelled to say, 
" Roll on, sweet chariot ! " to even the street-car as it 
appears before their longing eyes. 

Some people, mostly men, under these circumstances 
will stand and look at the viands spread out temptingly 
in the restaurant windows; others, myself among the 
number, will avoid such places as one would avoid a 
pestilence. 

We were back in Cleveland for the last of the season, 
and I used to count, over and over again, my tiny sav- 
ings and set them in little piles. The wash, the board, 



POOR LODGINGS 51 

and, dear heaven ! there were six long, long weeks of 
vacation, and I had only one little pile of board money 
to set against the whole six. I had six little piles of wash 
money, and one other little pile, the raison d'etre of 
which I may explain by and by, if I am not too much 
ashamed of the early folly. 

Now I was staying at that acme of inconvenience and 
discomfort, a cheap boarding-house, where, by the way, 
social lines were drawn with sharp distinction, the upper 
class coldly recognizing the middle class, but ignoring 
the very existence of the lower class, refugees from ig- 
noble fortune. 

Mrs. Bradshaw, by right of dignity and regular pay- 
ments for the best room in the house, was the star-boarder, 
and it was undoubtedly her friendship which raised me 
socially from that third and lowest class to which my 
small payments would have relegated me. 

Standing in my tiny, closet-like room, by lifting my- 
self to my toes, I could touch the ceiling. There was not 
space for a bureau, but the yellow wash-stand stood quite 
firmly, with the assistance of a brick, which made up for 
the absence of part of its off hind leg. There was a 
kitchen-chair that may have been of pine, but my aching 
back proclaimed it lignum-vitse. A mere sliver of a bed 
stretched itself sullenly in the corner, where its slats, 
showing their outlines through the meagre bed-clothing, 
suggested the ribs of an attenuated cab-horse. From 
that bed early rising became a pleasure instead of a mere 
duty. Above the wash-stand, in a narrow, once veneered 
but now merely glue-covered frame, hung a small look- 
ing-glass, that, size considered, could, I believe, do more 
damage to the human countenance than could any other 
mirror in the world. It had a sort of dimple in its mid- 
dle, which had the effect of scattering one's features into 
the four corners of the glass, loosely — a nose and eye- 
brow here, a mouth yonder, and one's " altogether " no- 
where. 

It was very disconcerting. Blanche said it made her 



52 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

quite sea-sick, or words to that effect. This dreadful lit- 
tle apartment lay snug- against the roof. In the winter 
the snow sifted prettily but uncomfortably here and there. 
In the summer the heat was appalling. Those old-timers 
who knew the house well, called No. 15 the " torture- 
chamber," and many a time, during the fiercest heat, Mrs. 
Bradshaw would literally drive me from the small fiery 
furnace to her own room, where at least there was air to 
breathe, for No. 15 had but half a window. And yet, 
miserable as this place was, it was a refuge and a shelter. 
The house was well known, it was ugly, as cheap things 
are apt to be, but it was respectable and safe, and I trem- 
bled at the thought of losing my right to enter there. 

In the past my mother had been employed by the land- 
lady as seamstress and as housekeeper, besides which she 
had once nursed the lonely old woman through a severe 
sickness, and as I had been permitted to live with my 
mother, Mrs. Miller of course knew me well ; so one day 
when she found me engaged in the unsatisfactory occu- 
pation of recounting my money she asked me, very gruffly, 
what I was going to do through the summer. I gazed 
at her with wide, frightened eyes, and was simply dumb. 
More sharply, she asked : " Do you hear ? — what are 
you going to do when the theatre closes ? " 

I swallowed hard, and then faintly answered : " I've 
got one week's board saved, Mrs. Miller, but after that 
I — I — ," had my soul depended upon the speaking of 
another word I could not have uttered it. 

She glared her most savage glare at me. She impa- 
tiently pushed her false front awry, pulled at her spec- 
tacles, and finally took up one of my six little piles of 
coin and asked: "What's this for?" 

" Washing," I gasped. 

" You don't send your handkerchiefs to the wash, do 
you ? " she demanded, suspiciously. 

I shook my head and pointed to a handkerchief drying 
on a string at my half-window. 

" That's right," she remarked, in a slightly mollified 



BEFRIENDED 53 

tone. Then she reached over, took up the pile that was 
meant for the next week's board, and putting it in her 
pocket, she remarked: "I'll just take this now, so you 
won't run no risk of losing it, and for the next five weeks 
after, why, well your mother was honest before you, and 
I reckon you're going to take after her. You promise 
to be a hard worker, too, so, well nobody else has ever 
been able to stay in this room over a week — so I guess 
you can go on stopping right here, till the theatre opens 
again, and you can pay me by fits and starts as it comes 
handy for you. Why, what's the matter with you? 
Well, I vum ! you must be clean tuckered out to cry like 
that ! Land sakes, child ! tie a wet rag on your head and 
lay right down, till you can get picked up a bit ! " and 
out she bounced. 

Dear old raging savage ! how she used to frighten us 
all ! how she barked and barked, but she never, never 
bit ! How I wanted to kiss her withered old cheek that 
day when she offered me shelter on trust! But she was 
eighty-five years old and my honored guest here at " The 
Pines " before I told her all the terror and the gratitude 
she brought to me that day. 

My clear skin, bright eyes, and round face gave me an 
appearance of perfect health, which was belied by the 
pain I almost unceasingly endured. The very inadequate 
provision my poor mother had been able to make for the 
necessaries of her child's welfare, the cruel restrictions 
placed upon my exercise, even upon movement in that 
wooden chair, where I sat with numb limbs five hours 
at a stretch, had greatly aggravated a slight injury to my 
spine received in babyhood. And now I was facing a 
life of hard work, handicapped by that most tenacious, 
most cruel of torments, a spinal trouble. 

At fourteen I knew enough about such terms as ver- 
tebra of the back, spinal-column, spinal-cord, sheath of 
cord, spinal-marrow, axial nervous system, curvatures, 
flexes and reflexes to have nicely established an energetic 
quack as a specialist in spinal trouble; and, alas! after 



54 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

all these years no one has added to my list of flexes and 
reflexes the words " fixed or refixed," so my poor spine 
and I go struggling on, and I sometimes think, if it could 
speak, it might declare that I am as dented, crooked, and 
wavering as it is. However, I suppose that state of un- 
certain health may have caused the capricious appetite 
that tormented me. Always poor, I had yet never been 
able to endure coarse food. Heavy meats, cabbage, tur- 
nips, beets, fried things filled me with cold repulsion. 
Crackers and milk formed my dinner, day in and day 
out. Now and then crackers and water had to suffice 
me; but I infinitely preferred the latter to a meal of 
roast pork or of corned beef, followed by rice-pudding. 

But the trouble from the fastidious appetite came when 
it suddenly demanded something for its gratification — 
imperiously, even furiously demanded it. If anyone 
desires a thing intensely, the continual denial of that 
craving becomes almost a torture. So, when that finical 
appetite of mine would suddenly cry out for oysters, I 
could think of nothing else. Quick tears would spring 
into my eyes as I approached the oysterless table. Again 
and again I would dream of them, cans and cans would 
be piled on my table (I lived far from shell-oysters then), 
and when I awoke I would turn on my lumpy bed and 
moan like a sick animal. I mention this because I wish 
to explain what that little odd pile of money had been 
saved for. 

At the approach of hot weather a craving for ice-cream 
had seized upon me with almost agonizing force. It is 
a desire common to all young things, but the poverty of 
my surroundings, the lack of the more delicate vegetables, 
of fruits, of sweets, added to the intensity of my craving. 
I had found a place away up on the market where for 
ten cents one could get quite a large saucer of the deli- 
cate dainty. Fifteen or twenty-five cents was charged 
elsewhere for no better cream, but a more decorative 
saucer. 

But, good gracious ! what a sum of money — ten cents 



MY FIRST VACATION ENDS 55 

for a mere pleasure ! though the memory of it afterward 
was a comfort for several days, and then, oh, unfortunate 
girl ! the sick longing would come again ! And so, in a 
sort of despair, I tried to save thirty cents, with the de- 
liberate intention of spending the whole sum on luxury 
and folly. Six long, blazing-hot, idle weeks I should have 
to pass in the " torture-chamber," but with that thirty 
cents by me I could, every two weeks, loiter deliciously 
over a plate of cream, feel its velvety smoothness on my 
lips and its icy coldness cooling all my weary, heat-worn 
body. One week I could live on memory, and the next 
upon anticipation, and so get through the long vacation 
in comparative comfort. 

There was no lock upon my room door, but I said 
nothing about it, as the door would not close anyway; 
and at night, for security, I placed the lignum-vitse chair 
against it. In the day-time I had to entrust my belong- 
ings to the honor of my house-mates, as it were. 

The six little piles of wash-money I had, after the 
manner of a squirrel, buried here and there at the bot- 
tom of my trunk, which I securely locked; but my 
precious thirty cents I carried about with me, tied in the 
corner of a handkerchief. It generally rested in the 
bosom of my dress, but there came a day when, for econ- 
omy's sake, I washed a pair of stockings as well as my 
three handkerchiefs, and Mrs. Miller said I might hang 
them on the line in the yard below. My tiny window 
opened in that direction. The day was fiercely hot. I 
put the money in my pocket and carefully hung my dress 
up opposite the window, and, in a little white jacket, did 
out my washing; then, singing happily, I ran down- 
stairs, two long flights, to hang the articles on the line. 
As I was putting a clothes-pin in place I glanced upward 
at the musk-plant on my window-sill — and then my 
heart stood still in my breast. I could neither breathe 
nor move for the moment. I could see my dress-skirt 
depending from its nail, and oh, dear God! a man's 
great red hand was grasping it — was clutching it, here 



56 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

and there, in search of the pocket! Suddenly I gave a 
piercing cry, and bounding into the house, I tore madly 
up the stairs — too late. The dress lay in the doorway 
— the pocket was empty! On the floor, with my head 
against the white-washed wall, I sat with closed eyes. 
The smell of a musk-plant makes me shudder to this 
day. I sat there stupidly till dusk; then I crept to my 
sliver of a bed, and cried, and cried, and sobbed the whole 
weary, hot night through. Next day I simply could not 
rise, and so for weeks I dragged heavily up and down 
the stairs, loathing the very sight of the dining-room, and 
driven half wild with that never-sleeping craving for 
ice-cream. 

It was purgatory, it was the very tragedy of littleness. 
And that was my first theatrical vacation. 



CHAPTER NINTH 

The Season Reopens — I meet the Yellow Breeches and 
become a Utility Man — Mr. Murdock Escapes Fits 
and my " Luck " Proves to be Extra Work. 

THE exuberance of my joy over the opening of the 
new season was somewhat modified by my close 
relations with a certain pair of knee-breeches — 
and I wish to say right here that when Gail Hamilton 
declared inanimate things were endowed with powers of 
malice and general mischievousness, she was not exag- 
gerating, but speaking strictly by the card. 

Some men think her charge was made solely against 
collar-buttons, whose conduct the world admits is detri- 
mental to good morals; but they are wrong; she in- 
cluded many things in her charge. Consider the inno- 
cent-looking rocking-chair, for instance. When it strikes 
does not the rocker always find your ankle-joint? In 
darkness or in light did it ever miss that exact spot? 
Never! And then how gently it will sway, while you 
rear and stamp, and, with briny eyes, say — well, things 
you should not say, things you would not say but for the 
malice of an inanimate thing. 

Perhaps the quickest way to win your sympathy is to 
tell you at once that those knee-breeches were made of 
yellow plush, bright yellow — I thought that would 
move you ! There was a coat, too — yes, things can al- 
ways be worse, you see; and when I was crowded into 
that awful livery I felt like hopping about in a search 
for hemp-seed, I looked so like an enormous canary that 
had outgrown its cage. 

Had Gail Hamilton known those breeches she would 
have said : " Here is total depravity in yellow plush ! " 

57 



58 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

You see, the way they got their grip on me originally 
was this. There had been two utility men engaged for 
the company, but one of them was taken sick and could 
not come to the city at all, and the other one made the 
manager sick, and was discharged for utter incompetency, 
and that very night there was required a male servant 
who could in the first act summon the star to the presence 
of his employer, with a name hard to pronounce ; and in 
the last act, when the star had become the boss of the 
whole affair, could announce the coming of his carriage. 

" Could I do those two lines ? " 

" Oh, yes ! " I joyfully announced my ability and my 
willingness ; " but I had no clothes.'' 

And then, instead of turning the part into a girl at- 
tendant, in an evil moment the manager bethought him- 
self of some wardrobe he had purchased from a broken 
up or down opera manager, and search discovered the 
yellow-plush breeches, coat, and white wig. I put them 
on — the canary was hatched! 

I played the part of two announcements ; I walked out 
clear from the hip, like a boy — and I became the utility 
man of the company, and the tormented victim of the 
yellow breeches. 

I was a patient young person and willing to endure 
much for art's sake, but that wig was too much. Built of 
white horse-hair mounted upon linen, its heat and weight 
were fearful. It had evidently been constructed for a 
big, round, perfectly bumpless head. It came down to 
my very eyebrows on top, and at the sides, instead of 
terminating just at the hair-line above the ear, it swal- 
lowed up my ears, covered my temples, and extended 
clear to my eyes, giving me the appearance of being 
harnessed up in large white blinders — like a shying 
horse. In common humanity the manager released me 
from the wig and let me wear powder, but the clutch 
of the yellow breeches remained unbroken. 

As in their opera days (I don't know what they sang, 
but they were probably in the chorus) they had wan- 



MY YELLOW PLUSH BREECHES 59 

dered through the world, knowing all continental Europe 
and the South Americas, so now they wandered through 
dramatic literature. One night accompanying me on to 
deliver a note to Madame de Pompadour, the next night 
those same yellow breeches and I skipped back to Louis 
XIV., and admitted many lords and ladies, with tongue- 
tying names, to that monarch's presence, only to skip 
forward again, in a few days, to bring in mail-bags to 
snufly rural gentry, under almost any of the Georges. 
Though the lace ruffles and jabots of the French period 
might give place to a plain red waistcoat for the Georgian 
English household, the canary breeches were always 
there, ready to burst into song at any moment, to basely 
fire off a button or break a buckle just at the moment of 
my entrance-cue, treacherously suggesting, by their easy 
wrinkling while I stood, that I might just as well sit down 
and rest my tired feet, and the moment I attempted to 
lower myself to a chair, beginning such a mad cracking 
and snapping in every seam as brought me upright with 
a bound and the settled conviction that weariness was 
preferable to public shame. 

I am glad to this day that the stage-door was always 
kept locked, for, had it been open, heaven only knows 
where those cosmopolitan breeches might have taken me 
— they were such experienced travellers that a trip to 
Havana or to the City of Mexico would have struck them 
as a nice little jaunt. 

My pleasantest moments as utility man came to me 
when, in a very brief white cotton Roman shirt and 
sandals, I led the shouts for the supers, who are pro- 
verbially dumb creatures before the audience, though 
noisy enough behind the scenes. So all the furious and 
destructive mobs of that season were led on by a little 
whipper-snapper who yelled like a demon with a copper- 
lined throat and then stood about afterward peacefully 
making tatting. 

It must not be thought that I had in the first place a 
monopoly of the small parts ; far from it, but the com- 



60 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

pany being rather short of utility people, if the ballet- 
girls could play speaking servants, it not only saved a 
salary or two to the manager, but it was of immense 
advantage to the girls themselves. Then, too, Mr. 
Ellsler was particularly anxious to avoid any charge of 
favoritism ; so in the earliest days these little parts were 
given out turn and turn about, without choice or favor 
— indeed, two or three times my short dress caused me 
to be passed over in favor of long dresses and done-up 
hair. But a few disasters, caused by failure of memory 
or loss of nerve on the part of these competitors, gave 
the pas to me, and it must be remembered that these 
lapses and mishaps, though amusing to recall, were ab- 
solutely disastrous at the time, ruining, as they did, the 
scene, if not the entire act, in which they occurred. 

With special vividness I recall the first one of these 
happenings. " Romeo and Juliet " was the play, and 
Balthazar the part. I longed for it because, aside from 
his fine speech, he was really quite important and had to 
show tenderness, anxiety, and determination during the 
time Romeo addressed him. I pleaded with my eyes, but 
I could not, dared not speak up and ask for the part, as 
did Annie, who was older than I. The star and prompter 
exchanged a few low-spoken sentences. I caught the 
condemnatory word " child," and knew my fate was 
sealed — long skirts and turned-up hair had won. How- 
ever, my wound was salved when the page to Paris was 
given me with two lines to speak. 

Now there is no one but Romeo on the stage when 
Balthazar enters, which, of course, gives him great promi- 
nence. His first speech, of some fifty or fifty-six words, 
is simply expressed, not at all involved, yet from the mo- 
ment Annie received the part she became a broken, terror- 
stricken creature. Many people when nervous bite their 
nails, but Annie, in that state of mind, had a funny habit 
of putting her hand to the nape of her neck and rubbing 
her hair upward. She had a pretty dress of her own, 
but she had to borrow a wig, and, like all borrowed wigs, 



MURDERING SHAKESPEARE 61 

it failed to fit ; it was too small, and at last, when the best 
had been done, its wobbly insecurity must have been 
terrifying. 

The girl's figure was charming, and as she stood in 
the entrance in her boy's costume, I remarked : " You 
look lovely, Annie ! " 

Silently she turned her glassy, unseeing eyes toward 
me, while she shifted her weight swiftly from one foot to 
the other, opening and shutting her hands spasmodically. 
Romeo was on, and he joyously declared : 

" My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne ! " 

He then described his happy dream — I heard the words : 
" When but love's shadows are so rich in joy ! " 

And there Annie staggered forward on to the stage. 
" News from Verona ! " cried Ro?neo : " How now, Balthazar ? " 

Oh, well might he ask " How now ? " for, shifting from 
foot to foot, this stricken Balthazar was already feeling 
at the nape of her neck, and instead of answering the 
questions of Romeo about Juliet with the words: 

" Then she is well, and nothing can be ill, 
Her body sleeps in Capets' monument, 
And her immortal part with angels lives ; 
I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, 
And presently took post to tell it you : 
O pardon me for bringing these ill news, 
Since you did leave it for my office, sir," 

these were the startling statements he made in gulps 
and gasps: 

" O-Oh, y-yes ! Sh-e's very well — and nothing's wrong ; 

[titter from audience, and amazement on Romeo's face] 

H-her immortal parts are in a vault, 

I — I saw them laid there, and come to tell you ! " 



62 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Perhaps she would have got to the right words at last, 
but just there the wig, pushed too hard, lurched over on 
one side, giving such a piratical look to the troubled face 
that a very gale of laughter filled the house, and she re- 
tired then and there, though in the next speech she should 
have refused to leave Romeo: 

" Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus: 
Your looks are pale and wild," 

yet now, because his looks were red and wild, she left 
without permission, and the enraged instead of grieving 
Romeo had no one to receive his order : 

get me ink and paper, 



And hire post horses." 

So when, in his confusion, he went on continuing his 
lines as they were written, and, addressing empty space, 
fiercely bade Balthazar: 

" get thee gone ! " 



and in unintentionally suggestive tones promised: 

" I'll be with thee straight ! " 

the audience laughed openly and heartily at the star 
himself. 

" Yes, sir," he snorted later on to Mr. Ellsler, " by 
heaven, sir! they laughed at me — at me! I have been 
made ridiculous by your measly little Balthazar — who 
should have been a man, sir! Yes, sir, a man, whom I 
could have chastised for making a fool of himself, sir! 
and a d — d fool of me, sir ! " 

For the real tragedy of that night lay in the wound 
given to the dignity of Mr. F. B. Conway, who played 
a measured and stately Romeo to the handsome and 
mature Juliet of his wife. 



READING THE RIOT ACT 63 

We had no young Juliets just then, they were all rather 
advanced, rather settled in character for the reckless child 
of Verona. But every lady who played the part declared 
at rehearsal that Shakespeare had been foolish to make 
Juliet so young — that no woman had learned enough to 
understand and play her before middle age at least. 

Mrs. Bradshaw, one day, said laughingly to me : " By 
your looks you seemed to disagree with Mrs. Ellsler's 
remarks this morning. She, too, thinks a woman is not 
fit for Juliet until she has learned much of nature and the 
world. " 

" But," I objected, lamely, " while they are learning 
so much about the world they are forgetting such a lot 
about girlhood ! " 

Her laughter confused and distressed me. " I can't 
say it ! " I cried, " but you know how very forward Juliet 
is in speech? If she knew, that would become brazen 
boldness ! It isn't what she knows, but what she feels 
without knowing that makes the tragedy ! " And what 
Mrs. Bradshaw meant by muttering, " Babes and suck- 
lings — from the mouths of babes and sucklings," I could 
not make out; perhaps, however, I should say that my 
mate Annie played few blank-verse parts after Balthazar. 

Then, one Saturday night, we were all corralled by the 
prompter before we could depart for home, and were 
gravely addressed by the manager — the whole thing be- 
ing ludicrously suggestive of the reading of the riot act ; 
but after reminding us that Mr. James E. Murdoch would 
begin his engagement on Monday night, that the re- 
hearsals would be long and important, he proceeded to 
poison the very source of our Sunday's rest and comfort 
by fell suggestions of some dire mishap threatening the 
gentleman through us. We exchanged wondering and 
troubled glances. What could this mean? 

Mr. Ellsler went on : " You all know how precise Mr. 
Murdoch has always been about your readings ; how 
exacting about where you should stand at this word or at 
that; how quickly his impatience of stupidity has burst 



64 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

into anger ; but you probably do not know that since his 
serious sickness he is more exacting than ever, and has 
acquired the habit, when much annoyed, of — of — er — 
well, of having a fit." 

" O-h ! " it was unanimous, the groan that broke from 
our oppressed chests. Stars who gave us fits we were 
used to, but the star who went into fits himself — good 
heavens ! good heavens ! 

Rather anxiously, Mr. Ellsler continued : " These fits, 
for all I know, may spell apoplexy — anyway, he is too 
frail a man to safely indulge in them; so, for heaven's 
sake, do nothing to cross him ; be on time, be perfect — 
dead letter-perfect in your parts; write out all his direc- 
tions if necessary; grin and bear anything, so long as 
he doesn't have a fit ! Good-night." 

The riot act had been read, the mob dispersed, but the 
nerve of the most experienced was shaken by the pros- 
pect of acting a whole week with a gentleman who, at 
any moment, might get mad enough to have a fit. 

Think, then, what must have been the state of mind 
of my other ballet-mate, Hattie, who, in her regular turn, 
had received a small part, but of real importance, and 
who had to address her lines to Mr. Murdoch himself. 
Poor girl, always nervous, this new terror made her 
doubly so. She roused the star's wrath, even at rehearsal. 

"Speak louder!" (imperatively). "Will you speak 
louder? " (furiously). " Perhaps, in the interest of those 
who will be in front to-night, I may suggest that you 
speak loud enough to be heard by — say — the first 
row!" (satirically). Now a calmly controlled body is 
generally the property of a trained actress, not of a raw 
ballet-girl, and Hattie's restless shifting about and wrig- 
gling drove him into such a rage that, to the rest of us, he 
seemed to be trembling with inchoate fits, and I saw the 
property man get his hat and take his stand by the stage- 
door, ready to fly for the doctor, or, as he called him, 
" the fit sharp." 

She, too, was to appear as a page. She was to enter 



STAGE-FRIGHTENED 65 

hurriedly — always a difficult thing for a beginner to do. 
She was to address Mr. Murdoch in blank verse — a 
more difficult thing — and implore him to come swiftly 
to prevent bloodshed, as a hostile meeting was taking 
place between young Count So-and-so and " your nephew, 
sir!" 

This news was to shock the uncle so that he would 
stand dazed for a moment, when the page, looking off 
the stage, should cry: 

" Ah, you are too late, sir, already their blades are out ! 
See how the foils writhe," etc. 

With a cry, the uncle should recover himself, and furi- 
ously order the page to 

" call the watch ! " 



Alas! and alas! when the night, the play, the act, the 
cue came, Hattie, as handsome a boy as you could wish 
to see, went bravely on, as quickly, too, as her terror- 
chilled legs could carry her, but when she got there had 
no word to say — no, not one ! 

In a sort of icy rage, Mr. Murdoch gave her her line, 
speaking very low, of course : 

" My lord — my lord ! I do beseech you haste, 
Else here is murder done ! " 

But the poor girl, past prompting properly, only caught 
wildly at the sense of the speech, and gasped out : 

" Come on, quick ! " 

She saw his foot tapping with rage — thought his fits 
might begin that way, and madly cried, at the top of 
her voice: 

11 Be quick — see — see ! publicly they cross \ht\r financiers / " 



66 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

then, through the laughter, rushed from the stage, cry- 
ing, with streaming tears : " I don't care if he has a dozen 
fits ! He has just scared the words out of my head with 
them ! " 

And truly, when Mr. Murdoch, trembling with weak- 
ness, excitement, and anger, staggered backward, clasp- 
ing his brow, everyone thought the dreaded fit had 
arrived. 

Next day he reproachfully informed Mr. Ellsler that 
he could not yet see blank verse and the King's English 
(so he termed it) murdered without suffering physically 
as well as mentally from the shocking spectacle. That 
he was an old man now, and should not be exposed to 
such tests of temper. 

Yes, as he spoke, he was an old man — pallid, lined, 
weary-faced; but that same night he was young Mira- 
bel — in spirit, voice, eye, and movement. Fluttering 
through the play, " Wine Works Wonders," in his satins 
and his laces — young to the heart — young with the 
immortal youth of the true artist. 

Both these girls spoke plain prose well enough, and 
always had their share of the parts in modern plays ; but, 
as all was grist to my individual mill, most of the blank- 
verse and Shakespearean small characters came to me. 
Nor was I the lucky girl they believed me ; there was no 
luck about it. My small success can be explained in two 
words — extra work. When they studied their parts 
they were contented if they could repeat their lines per- 
fectly in the quiet of their rooms, and made no allowance 
for possible accidents or annoyances with power to con- 
fuse the mind and so cause loss of memory and ensuing 
shame. But I was a careful young person, and would 
not trust even my own memory without first taking every 
possible precaution. Therefore the repeating of my lines 
correctly in my room was but the beginning of my study 
of them. In crossing the crowded street I suddenly de- 
manded of myself my lines. At the table, when all were 
chatting, I again made sudden demand for the same. 



AWAKENING AMBITIONS 67 

If on either occasion my heart gave a jump and 
my memory failed to present the exact word, I knew 
I was not yet perfect, and I would 'repeat those lines 
until, had the very roof blown off the theatre at night, 
I should not have missed one. Then only could I turn 
my attention to the acting of them — oh, bless you, yes ! 
I quite thought I was acting, and at all events I was 
doing the next best thing, which was trying to act. 

But a change was coming to me, an experience was 
approaching which I cannot explain to myself, neither 
has anyone else explained it for me; but I mention it 
because it made such a different thing of dramatic life 
for me. Aye, such a difficult thing as well. Looking 
back to that time I see that all my childhood, all my 
youth, was crowded into that first year on the stage. 
There I first knew liberty of speech, freedom of motion. 
There I shared in the general brightness and seemed to 
live by right divine, not by the grudging permission of 
some task-mistress of my mother. I had had no youth 
before, for in what should have been babyhood I had 
been a troubled little woman, most wise in misery. In 
freedom my crushed spirits rose with a bound. The 
mimicry, the adaptability of childhood asserted them- 
selves — I pranced about the stage happily but thought- 
lessly. 

It seems to me I was like a blind puppy, born into 
warmth and comfort and enjoying both, without any fear 
of the things it could not see. As I have said before, I 
knew no fear, I had no ambition, I was just happy, 
blindly happy ; and now, all suddenly, I was to exchange 
this freedom of unconsciousness for the slavery of con- 
sciousness. 



CHAPTER TENTH 

With Mr. Dan. Setchell I Win Applause — A Strange 
Experience Comes to Me — I Know Both Fear and 
Ambition — The Actress is Born at Last 

MY manager considered me to have a real gift of 
comedy, and he several times declared that my 
being a girl was a distinct loss to the profession 
of a fine low comedian. 

It was in playing a broad comedy bit that my odd ex- 
perience came to me. Mr. Dan. Setchell was the star. 
He was an extravagantly funny comedian, and the laziest 
man I ever saw — too lazy even properly to rehearse his 
most important scenes. He would sit on the prompt table 
— a table placed near the footlights at rehearsal, hold- 
ing the manuscript, writing materials, etc., with a chair 
at either end, one for the star, the other for the prompter 
or stage manager — and with his short legs dangling he 
would doze a little through people's scenes, rousing him- 
self reluctantly for his own, but instead of rising, taking 
his place upon the stage, and rehearsing properly, he 
would kick his legs back and forth, and, smiling pleas- 
antly, would lazily repeat his lines where he was, adding : 
" I'll be on your right hand when I say that, Herbert. 
Oh, at your exit, Ellsler, you'll leave me in the centre, 
but when you come back you'll find me down left." 

After telling James Lewis several times at what places 
he would find him at night, Lewis remarked, in despair: 
" Well, God knows where you'll find me at night ! " 

" Oh, never mind, old man," answered the ever-smil- 
ing, steadily kicking Setchell, " if you're there, all right ; 
if you're not there, no matter ! " which was not exactly 
flattering. 

68 



ACTING WITH DAN. SETCHELL 69 

Of course such rehearsals led to many errors at night, 
but Mr. Setchell cleverly covered them up from the 
knowledge of the laughing audience. 

It is hard to imagine that lazy, smiling presence in the 
midst of awful disaster, but he was one of the victims of 
a dreadful shipwreck while making the voyage to Aus- 
tralia. Bat-blind to the future, he at that time laughed 
and comfortably shirked his work in the day-time, and 
made others laugh when he did his work at night. 

In one of his plays I did a small part with him — I 
was his wife, a former old maid of crabbed temper. I 
had asked Mr. Ellsler to make up my face for me as an 
old and ugly woman. I wore corkscrew side curls and 
an awful wrapper. I was a fearful object, and when 
Mr. Setchell first saw me he stood silent a moment, then, 
after rubbing his stomach hard, and grimacing, he took 
both my hands, exclaiming: "Oh, you hideous jewel! 
you positively gave me a cramp at just sight of you! 
Go in, little girl, for all you're worth ! and do just what 
you please — you deserve the liberty for that make-up ! " 

And goodness knows I took him at his word, and did 
anything that came into my giddy head. Even then I 
possessed that curious sixth sense of the born actress, 
and as a doctor with the aid of his stethoscope can hear 
sounds of grim warning or of kindly promise, while there 
is but the silence to the stander-by, so an actress, with 
that stethoscopic sixth sense, detects even the forming 
emotions of her audience, feeling incipient dissatisfaction 
before it becomes open disapproval, or thrilling at the 
intense stillness that ever precedes a burst of approbation. 

And that night, meeting with a tiny mishap, which 
seemed to amuse the audience, I seized upon it, elaborat- 
ing it to its limit, and making it my own, after the man- 
ner of an experienced actor. 

There was no elegant comedy of manners in the scene, 
understand, it was just the broadest farce, and it con- 
sisted of the desperate effort of a hen-pecked husband to 
assert himself and grasp the reins of home government, 



7 o LIFE ON THE STAGE 

which resolved itself at last into a scolding-match, in 
which each tried to talk the other down — with what re- 
sult you will know without the telling. 

The stage was set for a morning-room, with a table 
in the centre, spread with breakfast for two; a chair at 
either side and, as it happened, a footstool by mine. His 
high silk hat and some papers, also, were upon the table. 
For some unexplainable cause the silk hat has always 
been recognized, both by auditor and actor, as a legiti- 
mate object of fun-making, so when I, absent-mindedly, 
dropped all my toast-crusts into that shining receptacle, 
the audience expressed its approval in laughter, and so 
started me on my downward way, for that was my own 
idea and not a rehearsed one. When my husband mourn- 
fully asked if " There was not even one hot biscuit to 
be had ? " I deliberately tried each one with the back of 
my knuckles, and remarking, " Yes, here is just one," 
which was the correct line in the play, I took it myself, 
which was not in the play, and so went on till the scold- 
ing-match was reached. 

In my first noisy speech I meant to stamp my foot; but 
by accident I brought it down upon the footstool. The 
people laughed, I saw a point — I lifted the other foot 
and stood upon the stool. By the twinkle in Mr. Setchell's 
eye, as well as by the laughter in front, I knew I was 
on the right track. 

He roared — he lifted his arms above his head, and 
in my reply, as I raised my voice, I mounted from the 
stool to the seat of the chair. He seized his hat, and 
with the toast-crusts falling about his face and ears, 
jammed it on his head, while in my last speech, with my 
voice at its highest screech, I lifted my foot and firmly 
planted it upon the very breakfast-table. 

It was enough — the storm broke from laughter to 
applause. Mr. Setchell had another speech — one of re- 
signed acceptance of second place, but as the applause 
continued, he knew it would be an anti-climax, and he 
signalled the prompter to ring down the curtain. 



MAKING A HIT 71 

But I — I knew he ought to speak. I was frightened, 
tears filled my eyes. " What is it ? " I whispered, as I 
started to get down. 

** Stand still," he sharply answered, then added : " It's 
you, you funny little idiot! you've made a hit — that's 
all ! " and the curtain fell between us and the laughing 
crowd in front. 

The prompter started for me instantly from his cor- 
ner, exclaiming, in his anger : " Well, of all the cheeky 
devilment I ever heard or saw — " But Mr. Setchell had 
him by the arm in a second, crying : " Hold on, old man ! 
I gave her leave — she had my permission ! Oh, good 
Lord! did you see that ascent of stool, chair, and table? 
eh ? ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

I stood trembling like a jelly in a hot day. Mr. Setchell 
said : " Don't be frightened, my girl ! that applause was 
for you ! You won't be fined or scolded — you've made 
a hit, that's all ! " and he patted me kindly on the shoul- 
der and broke again into fat laughter. 

I went to my room, I sat down with my head in my 
hands. Great drops of sweat came out on my temples. 
My hands were icy cold, my mouth was dry, that ap- 
plause rang in my ears. A cold terror seized upon me 
— a terror of what, the public ? 

Ah, a tender mouth was bitted and bridled at last ! the 
reins were in the hands of the public, and it would drive 
me — where ? 

The public ! the public ! I had never feared it before, 
because I had never realized its power. If I pleased, 
well and good. If I displeased it, I should be driven 
forth from the dramatic Eden I loved, in which I hoped 
to learn so many things theatrical and to become very 
wise, and I should wander all my life in the stony places 
of poverty and disappointment! I clenched my hands 
and writhed in misery at the thought. I seemed again 
to hear that applause, which had been for me — my very 
self ! and I thrilled at its wild sweetness. Ah, the public ! 
it could make or it could mar my whole life. Mighty 



72 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

monster, without mercy! The great many-headed creat- 
ure, all jewelled over with fierce, bright eyes, with count- 
less ears a-strain for error of any kind! That beat the 
perfumed air with its myriad hands when pleased — 
when pleased ! A strange, great stillness seemed to close 
about me ; something murmured : " In the future, in the 
dim future, a woman may cause this many-headed mon- 
ster you fear to think as one mind, to feel as one heart ! 
Then the bit and bridle will be changed — that woman 
will hold the reins and will drive the public ! " At which 
I broke into shrill laughter, in spite of flowing tears. 
Two women came in, one said : " Why, what on earth's 
the matter? Have they blown you up for your didoes 
to-night? What need you care, you pleased the audi- 
ence ? " But another said, quietly : " Just get a glass of 
water for her, she has a touch of hysteria — I wonder 
who caused it ? " 

But I only thought of that woman of the dim future, 
who was to conquer the public — who was she ? 

Why that round of applause should have so shattered 
my happy confidence I cannot understand, but the fact 
remains that from that night I never faced a new audience, 
or attempted a new part, without suffering a nervous ter- 
ror that sometimes but narrowly escaped collapse. 



CHAPTER ELEVENTH 

My Promiscuous Reading wins me a Glass of Soda — The 
Stage takes up my Education and Leads me through 
Many Pleasant Places. 

I SUPPOSE it sounds absurd to say that during 
those first seasons, with choruses, dances, and small 
parts to learn, with rehearsals every day and ap- 
pearances every night, I was getting an education. 

But that depends upon your definition of the word. If 
it means to you schooling, special instruction, and for- 
mal training, then my claim is absurd; but if it means 
information, cultivation of the intellectual powers, en- 
lightenment, why then my claim holds good, my state- 
ment stands, I was getting an education. And let me 
say the stage is a delightful teacher ; she never wearies 
you with sameness or drives you to frenzy with iteration. 
No deadly-dull text-book stupefies you with lists of bare, 
bald dates, dryly informing you that someone was born 
in 1208, mounted the throne in 1220, died in 1258, and 
was succeeded by someone or other who reigned awhile 
— really you can't remember how long, and don't much 
care. There's nothing in figures for the memory to cling 
to. But no one can forget that Edward V. was born in 
1470, because he is such a tragic little figure, only thir- 
teen years old and of scant two months reign, because 
there was the Tower and there the crafty, usurping Duke 
of Gloster eager for his crown. 

Perhaps people would remember that Edward III. was 
born in 13 12 and was succeeded by his grandson, Rich- 
ard, if they were told at the same moment that he was 
father to that superb Black Prince, beloved alike of poet, 
painter, and historian. 

73 



74 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Now, to be a good actress and do intelligent work, one 
should thoroughly understand the play and its period in 
history, as the mainspring of its action is often political. 
To be able to do that requires a large fund of general 
information. That I had from my very babyhood been 
a reckless reader, came about from necessity — I had no 
choice, I simply read every single thing in print that my 
greedy hands closed upon; the results of this promiscu- 
ous reading, ranging from dime novels to Cowper, were 
sometimes amusing. One day, I remember, an actress 
was giving a very excited account of a street accident 
she had witnessed. Her colors were lurid, and some of 
her hearers received her tale coldly. " Oh ! " she cried, 
" such an awful crowd — a mob, you know — a perfect 
mob!" 

" Oh, nonsense ! " contradicted another, " there couldn't 
have been a mob, there are not people enough in that 
street to make a mob ! " 

Then I mildly but firmly remarked : " Oh, yes, there 
are, for you know that legally three's a mob and two's 
a crowd." 

A shout of laughter followed this bit of information. 
" How utterly absurd ! " cried one. " Well, of all the 
ridiculous ideas I ever heard ! " laughed another. And 
then, suddenly, dear old Uncle Dick (Mr. Richard Stev- 
ens and player of old men, to be correct) came to my 
support, and, with the authority of a one-time barrister, 
declared my statement to be perfectly correct. 

" But where, in the name of Heaven, did you get your 
information ? " 

" Oh," I vaguely replied, " I just read it somewhere." 

" That's a rather broad statement," remarked Uncle 
Dick ; " you don't give your authority, page and line, I 
observe. Well, see here, now, Clara mia, in whatever 
field you found that one odd fact, you certainly gleaned 
others there, so if you can produce, at once, three other 
legal statements, I will treat you to soda-water after 
rehearsal." 



EARNING A TREAT 75 

Oh, the delicious word was scarcely over his lips when 
I was wildly searching my memory, and presently, very 
doubtfully, offered the statement: "It is a fraud to con- 
ceal a fraud." 

But Uncle Dick gravely and readily accepted it. An- 
other search, and then joyfully I announced : " Contracts 
made with minors, lunatics, or drunkards are void." 

A shout of laughter broke from the kind old man's 
lips, but he accepted that, too. Oh, almost I could hear 
the cool hiss of the soda — but now not another thing 
could I find. My face fell, my heart sank. Hitherto I 
had been thinking of papers, now I frantically ran through 
stories. Suddenly I cried : " A lead-pencil signature 
stands in law." 

But, alas ! Uncle Dick hesitated — my authority was 
worthless. Oh, dear! oh, dear! was I to lose my treat, 
just for lack of a little legal knowledge? Sadly I re- 
marked, " I guess I'll have to give it up, unless — un- 
less you'll take : ' Principals are responsible for their 
agents,' " and, with pleasure beaming in his kind old eyes, 
he accepted it. 

Ah, I can taste that vanilla soda yet — and, what is 
more, the old gentleman took the trouble to find out about 
the legality of the lead-pencil signature; and, as my 
statement had been correct, he took great pains to make 
the fact known to all who had heard him question it, and 
he added to my little store of knowledge, " that a con- 
tract made on Sunday would not stand," which, by the 
way, later on, saved me from a probably painful experi- 
ence. 

I mention this to show that even my unadvised read- 
ing had not been absolutely useless, I had learned a little 
about a variety of things; but now, plays continually 
presented new subjects to me to think and read about; 
thus " Venice Preserved " set me wild to find out what 
a Doge was, and why Venice was so adored by her sons, 
and I straightway obtained a book about the wonderful 
city — whose commerce, power of mart and merchant 



76 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

may have departed, but whose mournful beauty is but 
hallowed by her weakness. 

So many plays were produced, representing so many 
periods, so many countries, I don't know how I should 
have satisfied my craving for the books they led me to 
had not the Public Library opened just then. I was so 
proud and happy the day my mother surprised me with 
half the price of a membership, and happier yet when I 
had the right to enter there and browse right and left, up 
and down, nibbling here, feeding long and contentedly 
there. Oh, the delight of reading one book, with two 
or three others in my lap; 'twas the pleasure of plenty, 
new to one who could have spelled " economy " in her 
sleep. 

Then, again, if it is the Stage that is making you read, 
you have to keep your eyes wide open and take note of 
many things. Some girls read just for the sake of the 
story, they heed nothing but that, they are even guilty 
of the impertinence of " skipping," " to get to the story 
more quickly, you know." But if you are on the stage 
you understand, for instance, that different kinds of fur- 
niture are used for different periods and for different 
countries; so even the beginner knows, when she sees 
the heavy old Flemish pieces of furniture standing on 
the stage in the morning, that no modern play is on that 
night, and is equally sure that the bringing out of the 
high tile-stove means a German interior is in prepara- 
tion. Therefore, if you read for the stage, you watch 
carefully, not only Sir Thomas's doings, but his surround- 
ings. If his chair or desk or sideboard is described, 
you make a note of the " heavily carved wood," or the 
" inlaid wood," or the " boule," or whatever it may be, 
and then you note the date of the story, and you say to 
yourself : " Ah, such and such furniture belongs to such 
a date and country." 

I once heard the company expressing their shocked 
amazement over the velvet robes of some Macbeth. I 
could not venture to ask them why it was so dreadful, 



NECESSITY FOR WIDE READING 77 

but later I found some paper stating that velvet was first 
known in the fifteenth century, and was confined to the 
use of the priests or high ecclesiastical authorities — and 
my mind instantly grasped the horror of the older actors 
at seeing Macbeth swathed in velvet in the grim, almost 
barbaric Scotland of about 1012 ; for surely it was a 
dreadful thing for an actor to wear velvet four hundred 
years ahead of its invention. 

You never know just where the Stage is going to lead 
you in your search for an education ; only one thing you 
may be sure of, it will not keep you very long to any one 
straight road, but will branch off in this direction or in 
that, taking up some side issue, as it seems, like this mat- 
ter of furniture, and lo, you presently find it is becoming 
a most important and interesting subject, well worth care- 
ful study. You come to believe you could recognize the 
workmanship of the great cabinet-makers at sight. You 
learn to shrink from misapplied ornament, you learn 
what gave rise to the " veneering reign-of-terror," you 
bow at the name of Chippendale, and are filled with won- 
der by the cinque-cento extravagance of beauty. You find 
yourself tracing the rise and fall of dynasties through 
the chaste beauty or the over-ornamentation of their 
cabinet work. If all that Sir Henry Irving knows on 
this subject could be crowded into a single volume, the 
book would have at least one fault — 'twould be of most 
unwieldy size. 

Then holding you by the hand the Stage may next lead 
you through the green and bosky places that the poets 
loved, and, having had your eyes opened to natural beau- 
ties, lo ! you go down another lane, and you are learning 
about costumes, and suddenly you discover that " sump- 
tuary laws " once existed, confining the use of furs, vel- 
vets, laces, etc., to the nobility. Fine woollens and linens, 
and gold and silver ornaments being also reserved for the 
privileged orders. That the extravagant young maids and 
beaux of the lower class who indulged in yellow starched- 
ruff, furred mantle, or silver chain were made to pay a 



78 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

cruel price for their folly in aping their betters. So it 
was well for me to make a note of the date of the " sump- 
tuary law," that I might not some day outrageously over- 
dress a character. 

It is a delightful study, that of costume — to learn how 
to drape the toga, how to hang the peplum; to under- 
stand the meaning of a bit of ribbon in the hair, whether 
as arranged in the three-banded fillet of the Grecian girl 
or as the snood of the Scottish lassie; to know enough 
of the cestus and the law governing its wearing, not to 
humiliate yourself in adopting it on improper occasions ; 
to have at least a bowing acquaintance with all foot-gear, 
from sandals down to an Oxford tie; to be able to scat- 
ter your puffed, slashed, or hanging sleeves over the 
centuries, with their correct accompanying, small-close, 
large-round, or square-upstanding ruffs. Why the mere 
detail of girdles and hanging pouches, from distant 
queens down to " Faust's " Gretchen, was a joy in itself. 

Then a girl who played pages, and other young boys, 
was naturally anxious to know all about doublets, trunks, 
and hose, as well as Scottish " philibeg and sporran." 
And wigs ? I used to wonder if anyone could ever learn 
all about wigs — and I'm wondering yet. 

But as one studies the coming and going of past fash- 
ions in garments, it is amusing to note their influence 
upon the cabinet-makers, as it is expressed in the chang- 
ing shape of their chairs. For instance: when panniers 
developed into farthingale and monstrous hoop, chairs, 
high and narrow, widened, lowered their arms — dropped 
them entirely, making indeed a fair start toward our own 
great easy-chair of to-day. 

I remember well what a jump my heart gave when in 
rooting about among materials — their weaves and dyes 
— I came upon the term " samite." It's a word that always 
thrills me, " samite, mystic, wonderful." Almost I was 
afraid to read what might follow; but I need not have 
hesitated, since the statement was that " samite " was 
supposed to have been a delicate web of silk and gold 



THE STAGE AS EDUCATOR 79 

or silver thread. How beautiful such a combination must 
have been — white silk woven with threads of silver 
might well become " mystic, wonderful," when wrapped 
about the chill, high beauty of an Arthur's face. 

But hie and away, to armor and arms ! for she would 
be but a poorly equipped actress who had no knowledge 
of sword and buckler, of solid armor, chain-mail, rings 
of metal on velvet, or of plain leather jerkin — of scimi- 
tar, sword, broadsword, foil, dagger, dirk, stiletto, creese. 

Oh, no ! don't pull your hand away if the Stage wants 
to lead you among arms and armor for a little while ; be 
patient, for by and by it will take you up, up into the 
high, clear place where Shakespeare dwells, and there 
you may try your wings and marvel at the pleasure of 
each short upward flight, for the loving student of Shakes- 
peare always rises — never sinks. Your power of insight 
grows clearer, stronger, and as you are lifted higher and 
higher on the wings of imagination, more and more widely 
opens the wonderful land beneath, more and more clearly 
the voices of its people reach you. You catch their words 
and you treasure them, and by and by, through much 
loving thought, you comprehend them, after which you 
can no longer be an uneducated woman, since no man's 
wisdom is superior to Shakespeare's, and no one gives 
of his wisdom more lavishly than he. 

Therefore, while a regular school-education is a thing 
to be thankful for, the actress who has been denied it need 
not despair. If she be willing to work, the Stage will edu- 
cate her — nor will it curtly turn her away at the end 
of a few years, telling her her " term " is ended. I clung 
tightly to its hand for many a year, and was taken a 
little way through music's halls, loitered for a time be- 
fore the easel, and even made a little rush at a foreign 
language to help me to the proper pronunciation of names 
upon the stage; and no man, no woman all that time 
rose up to call me ignorant. So I give all thanks and all 
honor to the profession that not only fed and clothed 
me, but educated me too ! 



CHAPTER TWELFTH 

The Peter Richings' Engagement brings me my First 
Taste of Slander — Anent the Splendor of my Ward- 
robe, also my First Newspaper Notice. 

I REMEMBER particularly that second season, be- 
cause it brought to me the first taste of slander, my 
first newspaper notice, and my first proposal of 
marriage. The latter being, according to my belief, the 
natural result of lengthening my skirts and putting up 
my hair — at all events, it was a part of my education. 

Of course the question of wardrobe was a most im- 
portant one still. I had done very well, so far as peasant 
dresses of various nationalities were concerned; I had 
even acquired a page's dress of my own, but I had no 
ball-dress, nothing but a plain, skimpy white muslin 
gown, which I had outgrown ; for I had gained surpris- 
ingly in height with the passing year. And, lo! the re- 
port went about that Mr. Peter Richings and his daugh- 
ter Caroline were coming in a fortnight, and they would 
surely do their play " Fashion," in which everyone was 
on in a dance; and I knew everyone would bring out 
her best for that attraction, for you must know that 
actresses in a stock company grade their costumes by the 
stars, and only bring out the very treasures of their ward- 
robes on state occasions. I was in great distress; one 
of my mates had a genuine silk dress, the other owned 
a bunch of artificial gold grapes, horribly unbecoming, 
stiff things, but, mercy, gold grapes ! who cared whether 
they were becoming or not? Were they not gorgeous 
(a lady star had given them to her) ? And I would have 
to drag about, heavy-footed, in a skimpy muslin ! 

But in the company there was a lady who had three 

80 



DRESS-MAKING TRICKS 81 

charming little children. She was the singing soubrette 
(by name Mrs. James Dickson). One of her babies be- 
came sick, and I sometimes did small bits of shopping 
or other errands for her, thus permitting her to go at 
once from rehearsal to her beloved babies. Entering her 
room from one of these errands, I found her much vexed 
and excited over the destruction of one of a set of fine 
new lace curtains. The nursemaid had carelessly set it 
on fire. Of course Mrs. Dickson would have to buy two 
more curtains to replace them ; and now, with the odd 
one in her hand, she started toward her trunk, paused 
doubtfully, and finally said to me : " Could you use this 
curtain for some small window or something, Clara ? " 

At her very first word a dazzling possibility presented 
itself to my mind. With burning cheeks, I answered : 
" Oh, yes, ma'am, I — I can use it, but not at a window, 
I'm afraid." Her bonnie face flashed into smiles. 

" All right ; take it along, then ! " she cried, " and do 
what you like with it. It's only been up two days, and 
has not a mark on it." 

I fairly flew from the house. I sang, as I made my 
way uptown to buy several yards of rose-pink paper 
cambric and a half garland of American-made artificial 
roses. Then I sped home and, behind locked doors, meas- 
ured and cut and snipped, and, regardless of possible 
accident, held about a gill of pins in my mouth while I 
hummed over my work. All my fears were gone, they 
had fled before the waving white curtain, which fortu- 
nately for me was of fine meshed net, carrying for de- 
sign unusually small garlands of roses and daisies. And 
when the great night came, I appeared as one of the 
ball guests in a pink under-slip, with white lace over- 
dress, whose low waist was garlanded with wild roses. 
So, happy at heart and light of foot, I danced with the 
rest, my pink and white gown ballooning about me in 
the courtesies with as much rustle and glow of color as 
though it had been silk. 

But, alas! the imitation was too good a one! The 



82 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

pretty, cheap little gown I was so happy over attracted 
the attention of a woman whose whisper meant scandal, 
whose lifted brow was an innuendo, whose drooped lid 
was an accusation. Like a carrion bird she fed best upon 
corruption. Thank Heaven! this cruel creature, hated 
by the men, feared by the women, was not an actress, but 
through mistaken kindness she had been made wardrobe 
woman, where, as Mr. Ellsler once declared, she spent 
her time in ripping up and destroying the reputation of 
his actors instead of making and repairing their ward- 
robes. 

That nothing was too small to catch her pale, cold eye 
is proved by the fact that even a ballet-girl's dress re- 
ceived her attention. Next day, after the play " Fash- 
ion " had been done, this woman was saying : " That 
girl's mother had better be looking after her conduct, 
I think!" 

" Why, what on earth has Clara done ? " asked her 
listener. 

" Done ! " she cried, " didn't you see her flaunting her- 
self around the stage last night in silks and laces no hon- 
est girl could own? Where did the money come from 
that paid for such finery ? " 

A few days later a woman who boarded in the house 
favored by the mischief-maker happened to meet Mrs. 
Dickson, happily for me, and said, en passant: " Which 
one of your ballet-girls is it who has taken to dressing 
with so much wicked extravagance ? I wonder Mrs. Ells- 
ler don't notice it." 

Now Mrs. Dickson was Scotch, generous, and " unco " 
quick-tempered, and after she had put the inquiring friend 
right, she visited her wrath upon the originator of the 
slander in person, and verily the Scottish burr was on 
her tongue, and her " r's " rolled famously while she ex- 
plained the component parts of that extravagant costume : 
window curtain — her gift — and paper cambric and ar- 
tificial flowers to the cost of one dollar and seventy-five 
cents ; " and you'll admit," she cried, " that even the 
purse of a ' gude lass ' can stand sic a strain as that ; 



MR. PETER B. RICHINGS 83 

and what's mair, you wicked woman, had the girl been 
worse dressed than the others, you would ha' been the 
first to call attention to her as slovenly and careless." 

This was the first drop of scandal expressed especially 
for me, and I not only found the taste bitter — very bit- 
ter — but learned that it had wonderful powers of ex- 
pansion, and that the odor it gives off is rather pleasant 
in the nostrils of everyone save its object. 

Mrs. Dickson, who, by the way, is still doing good 
work professionally, has doubtless forgotten the entire 
incident, curtain and all, but she never will forget the 
bonnie baby-girl she lost that summer, and she will re- 
member me because I loved the little one — that's a 
mother's way. 

Mr. Peter B. Richings was that joy of the actor's heart 
— a character. He had been accounted a very fine actor 
in his day, but he was a very old man when I saw him, 
and his powers were much impaired. Six feet tall, high- 
featured, Roman-nosed, elegantly dressed ; a term from 
bygone days — and not disrespectfully used — describes 
him perfectly : he was an " old Buck ! " 

His immeasurable pride made him hide a stiffening 
of the joints under the forced jauntiness of his step, while 
a trembling of the head became in him only a sort of 
debonair senility at worst. Arrogant, short-tempered, 
and a veritable martinet, he nevertheless possessed an 
unbending dignity and a certain crabbed courtliness of 
manner very suggestive of the snuff-box and ruffle period 
of a hundred years before. 

His daughter, by adoption, was the object of his un- 
qualified worship — no other word can possibly express 
his attitude toward her. No heavenly choir could have 
charmed him as she did when she sang, while her intel- 
lectual head and marble-cold face seemed beautiful be- 
yond compare in his eyes. Really it was worth going far 
to see him walk through a quadrille with her. His bow 
was a thing for young actors to dream of, while with 
trembling head, held high in air, he advanced and re- 
treated, executing antiquated " steps " with a grace that 



84 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

deprived them of comicality, while his air of arrogant 
superiority changed instantly to profound homage when- 
ever in the movement of the figures he met his daughter. 

His pronunciation of her name was as a flourish of 
trumpets — Car-o-line ! Each syllable distinct, the " C " 
given with great fulness, and the emphasis on the first 
syllable when pleased, but heavily placed upon the last 
when he was anno}'ed. 

He was unconscionably vain of his likeness to Wash- 
ington, and there were few Friday nights, this being con- 
sidered the fashionable evening of the week, that he failed 
to present his allegorical picture of Washington receiv- 
ing the homage of the States, while Miss Richings, as 
Columbia, sang the " Star-Spangled Banner," the States 
joining in the chorus. 

In this tableau the circular opening in the flat, backed 
by a sky-drop and with blue clouds hanging about the 
opening, represented heaven. And here, at an elevation, 
Washington stood at the right, with Columbia and her 
flag on his left, while the States, represented by the ladies 
of the company, stood in lines up and down the stage, 
quite outside of heaven. 

Now a most ridiculous story anent Mr. Richings and 
this heaven of his was circulating through the entire 
profession. Some of our company refused to believe it, 
declaring it a mere spiteful skit against his well-known 
exclusiveness ; but that gentleman who had wished to 
send me for an " Ibid," being an earnest seeker after 
knowledge, determined to test the truth of the story. 
Therefore, after we had been carefully rehearsed in the 
music and had been informed by the star that only 
Car-O-line and himself were to stand back of that sky- 
like opening, this " inquiring " person gave one of the 
extra girls fifty cents to go at night before the curtain 
rose and take her stand on the forbidden spot. She took 
the money and followed directions exactly, and when Mr. 
Richings, as Washington, made his pompous way to the 
stage, he stood a moment in speechless wrath, and then, 
trembling with anger, he stamped his foot, and waving 



FIRST NEWSPAPER NOTICE 85 

his arm, cried : " Go a-way ! Go a-way ! you very pre- 
suming young person ; this is heaven, and I told you 
this morning that only my daughter Car-O-line and I 
could possibly stand in heaven ! " 

It was enough ; the " inquiring one " was rolling about 
with joy at his work. He had taken a rise out of the old 
gentleman and proved the truth of the story which had 
gone abroad in the land as to this claim of all heaven 
for himself and his Car-O-line. 

I naturally remember these stars with great clearness, 
since it was for a small part in one of their plays that 
I received my first newspaper notice. Imagine my in- 
credulous joy when I was told of this journalistic feat 

— unheard of before — of praising the work of a ballet- 
girl. Suspecting a joke, I did not obtain a paper until 
late in the day, and after I had several times been told 
of it. Then I ventured forth, bought a copy of the Her- 
ald, and lo, before my dazzled eyes appeared my own 
name. Ah, few critics, with their best efforts, have 
thrown as rosy a light upon the world as did Mr. Jake 
Sage with his trite ten-word statement : " Clara Morris 
played the small part allotted to her well." 

My heart throbbed hard, I seemed to catch a glimpse, 
through the rosy light, of a far-away Temple of Fame, 
and this notice was like a petal blown to me from the 
roses that wreathed its portals. Could I ever, ever reach 
them! 

" Played the small part allotted to her well." " Oh," 
I cried aloud, " I will try to do everything well — I will, 
indeed ! " and then I cut the notice out and folded it in 
a sheet of paper, and put both in an envelope and pinned 
that fast to my pocket, that I might take it to my mother, 
who was very properly impressed, and was a long time 
reading its few words, and was more than a trifle misty 
about the eyes when she gave it back to me. Looking at 
them now, the words seem rather dry and scant, but then 
they had all the sweetness, life, and color of a June rose 

— the most perfect thing of God's bounteous giving. 



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH 

Mr. Roberts Refers to Me as "That Young Woman," 
to My Great Joy — I Issue the " Clara Code " — I 
Receive my First Offer of Marriage. 

MY mother, moved at last by my highly colored 
accounts of the humiliations brought upon me 
by the shortness of my skirts, consented to 
their lengthening, and though I knew she had meant 
them to stop at my shoe-tops, I basely allowed a mis- 
understanding to arise with the dress-maker, through 
which my new dress came home the full length of the 
grown-ups, and though my conscience worried me a bit, 
I still snatched a fearful joy from my stolen dignity, and 
many a day I walked clear up to Superior Street that I 
might slowly pass the big show-windows and enjoy the 
reflection therein of my long dress-skirt. Of course I 
could not continue to wear my hair a la pigtail, and that 
went up in the then fashionable chignon. 

Few circumstances in my life have given me such un- 
alloyed satisfaction as did my first proposal of marriage. 
I should, however, be more exact if I spoke of an " at- 
tempted proposal," for it was not merely interrupted, but 
was simply mangled out of all likeness to sentiment or 
romance. The party of the first part in this case was 
Mr. Frank Murdoch, who later on became the author of 
" Davy Crockett," the play that did so much toward the 
making and the unmaking of the reputation of that brill- 
iant actor, the late Frank Mayo. He was the adoring 
elder brother of that successful young Harry Murdoch 
who was to meet such an awful fate in the Brooklyn 
Theatre fire. Neither of them, by the way, were born 
to the name of Murdoch ; they were the sons of James 

86 



MY FIRST PROPOSAL 87 

E.'s sister, and when, in spite of his advice and warning, 
they decided to become actors, they added insult to in- 
jury, as it were, by demanding of him the use of his 
name — their own being a particularly unattractive one 
for a play-bill. He let them plead long and hard before 
he yielded and allowed them to take for life the name 
of Murdoch — which as a trade-mark, and quite aside 
from sentiment, had a real commercial value to these 
young fellows who had yet to prove their individual per- 
sonal worth. 

Frank was very young — indeed, our united ages 
would have barely reached thirty-six. He had good 
height, a good figure, and an air of gentle breeding; 
otherwise he was unattractive, and yet he bore a strik- 
ing resemblance to his uncle, James Murdoch, who had 
a fine head and most regular features. But through some 
caprice of nature in the nephew those same features re- 
ceived a touch of exaggeration here, or a slight twist 
there, with the odd result of keeping the resemblance to 
the uncle intact, while losing all his beauty. Frank had 
a quixotic sense of honor and a warm and generous 
heart, but being extremely sensitive as to his personal 
defects he was often led into bursts of temper, during 
which he frequently indulged in the most childish follies. 
These outbreaks were always brief, and ever followed 
by deep contrition, so that he was generally regarded as 
a very clever, spoiled child. 

Poor boy ! his life was as sad as it was short. There 
may be few who remember him now, but a woman never 
forgets the man who first pays a compliment to her eyes, 
nor can I forget the first man who handed me a chair 
and opened and closed doors for me, just as for any 
grown-up. 

He joined the company in about the middle of that 
season in which I acted principally as utility man. He 
was to play singing parts and young lovers, and, to his 
amusement, I criticized his reading of one of Cassio's 
speeches. Our wrangle over Shakespeare made friends 



88 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

of us at once. He had a veritable passion for poetry, 
and with me he felt free to bring out his beautiful hobby 
to mount and ride and ride, with some of the great poets 
up behind and me for applauding audience. When he 
wanted me to know some special poem he bought it for 
me if he could; but if he was short of money, he care- 
fully copied out its every line, tied the manuscript neatly 
up with ribbon, and presented the poem in that form. I 
came across a copy of " Maud Muller " the other day 
in Frank's clear, even handwriting. The paper was yel- 
low, the ribbon faded. Frank is gone, Whittier is gone, 
but " Maud Muller " lives on in her immortal youth and 
pain. 

But the morning when he first brought and offered 
me a chair was nothing less than an epoch in my life. 
At first I regarded the act as an aspersion on my 
strength — a doubt cast upon my ability to obtain a seat 
for myself. Then, as I glanced frowningly into his face, 
I suddenly realized that it was meant as a mark of con- 
sideration — the courtesy a man shows a woman. A 
glow of satisfaction spread through my being. I hated 
to rise, I was so afraid the thing might never happen to 
me again. I need not have worried, however, as I was 
soon to receive a more impressive proof of his considera- 
tion for my welfare. 

One of the most unpleasant experiences in the life of 
a young actress is her frightened lonely rush through the 
city streets at twelve o'clock at night to reach her board- 
ing-house and claim sanctuary. I doubt if even a Una 
and her lion could pass unmolested through those streets 
dotted with all-night " free and easys," where, by the way, 
nothing is free but the poisonous air, and nothing easy 
but the language. At all events from my own varied and 
unpleasant experiences, and from the stories of others, 
I had first drawn certain deductions, then I had pro- 
ceeded to establish certain rules for the guidance and 
direction of any girl who was so unfortunate as to be 
forced to walk abroad unattended at night. These rules 



MY CODE 89 

became known as " Clara's Code," and were highly ap- 
proved, especially by those girls who " couldn't think," 
as they declared, but stood stock-still, " too frightened 
to move," when some wanderer of the night uncere- 
moniously addressed them. 

I cannot remember all those rules now, since for these 
many years God has granted me a protector, but from the 
few I can recall I am convinced that their principal ob- 
ject was to gain plenty of leeway for the persecuted 
girl's escape. No. 3 sternly forbade her ever, ever to 
pass between two advancing men — at night, of course, 
be it understood — lest they might seize hold of and so 
frighten her to death. She was advised never to permit 
herself to take the inside of the walk when meeting a 
stranger, who might thus crowd her against the house 
and cut off her chance to run. Never to pass the open- 
ing to an alley-way without placing the entire width of 
the walk between her and it, and always to keep her eyes 
on it as she crossed. Never to let any man pass her 
from behind on the outside was insisted on., indeed she 
should take to the street itself first. She was not to 
answer a drunken man, no matter what might be the 
nature of his speech. She was not to scream — if she 
could help it — for fear of public humiliation, but if the 
worst came and some hideous prowler of the night passed 
from speech to actual attack, then she was to forget her 
ladyhood and remembering only the tenderness of the 
male shin and her right of self-defence, to kick like a 
colt till help came or she was released. 

Other portions of the code I have forgotten, but I do 
distinctly remember that it wound up with the really 
Hoyle-like observation, " When in doubt, take to the cen- 
tre of the street." 

We all know the magic power of the moonlight — 
have seen it transmute the commonest ugliness into per- 
fect beauty and change a world-worn woman into the 
veriest lily-maid, but how few know the dread power 
exerted over man by the street gaslight after midnight. 



go LIFE ON THE STAGE 

The kindest old drake of the farm-pond, the most pom- 
pously harmless gobbler of the buckwheat-field becomes 
a vulture beneath the midnight street-light. A man who 
would shoot for being called a blackguard between seven 
o'clock in the morning and twelve at night, often be- 
comes one after midnight. It is frequently said that 
" words break no bones/' but let a young girl pass alone 
through the city streets a few nights and she will prob- 
ably hear words that, drowning her in shamed blushes, 
will go far toward breaking her pride, if not her bones. 
Men seem to be creatures of very narrow margin — they 
so narrowly escape being gods, and they so much more 
narrowly escape being animals. Under the sunlight, 
man, made in the image of God, lifts his face heaven- 
ward and walks erect; under the street-lamps of mid- 
night he is stealthy, he prowls, he is a visible destruction ! 
You think I exaggerate the matter? Do not; I speak 
from experience. And, what is more, at that time I had 
not yet learned what the streets of New York could pro- 
duce after midnight. 

But on the night after the chair episode, Frank Mur- 
doch heard one of the girls say she had used the Clara 
Code very successfully the night before, when two 
drunken men had reeled out of an alley, who would have 
collided with her had she not followed the rule and kept 
the whole sidewalk between them. He stood at the door 
as I came down-stairs, and as soon as I reached him he 
asked, sharply : " Do you go home alone of nights ? " 

" Yes," I answered. 

" Good God ! " he muttered. 

After a pause I looked up at him., and met his eyes 
shining wet and blue through two tears. " Oh," I hastily 
added, " there's nothing to be afraid of." 

" I wish I could agree with you," he answered. " Tell 
me," he went on, " have you ever been annoyed by any- 
one?" 

My eyes fell, I knew I was growing red. 

" Good God ! " he said again, then, suddenly, he or- 



"COCKY" ROBERTS 91 

dered : " Give me that bag — you'll not go through these 
streets alone again while I am here! Never mind the 
distance. I don't see why you can't take my arm." 

And thus I found myself for the first time escorted by 
a gentleman, and after my hot embarrassment wore off 
a bit, I held my head very high and languidly allowed 
my skirt to trail in the dust, and said to myself : " This 
is like a real grown-up — surely they can't call me ' child ' 
much longer now." 

The star playing with us just then was a tragedian, 
but he was a very little man, whose air of alertness, even 
of aggressiveness, had won for him the title of " Cocky " 
Roberts. He wore enormously high heels, he had thick 
cork soles on the outside and thick extra soles on the 
inside of all his boots and shoes. His wigs were slightly 
padded at their tops — everything possible was done for 
a gain in height, while all the time he was sputtering and 
swearing at what he called " this cursed cult of legs ! " 

" Look at 'em ! " he snorted — for he did snort like a 
horse when he was angry, as he often was, at the theatre 
at least. " Look at 'em, Ellsler ; there's Murdoch, Proc- 
tor, Davenport, all gone to legs, damn 'em, and calling 
themselves actors ! ' You don't look for brains in a man's 
legs, do you ? No ! no ! it's the cranium that tells ! Yes, 
blast 'em ! Let 'em come here and match craniums with 
me, that they think it smart to call ' Cocky ' ! They're a 
lot of theatrical tongs — all legs and no heads ! " 

And yet the poor, fuming little man, with his exag- 
gerated strut, would have given anything short of his 
life, to have added even a few inches to his anatomy, the 
brevity of which was quite forgotten by the public when 
he gave his really brilliant and pathetic performance of 
" Belphegor," one of the earliest of the so-called " emo- 
tional " plays. 

I have a very kindly remembrance of that fretful little 
star, because when they were discussing the cast of a 
play, one of those tormenting parts turned up that are 
of great importance to the piece, but of no importance 



92 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

themselves. Capable actresses refuse to play them, and 
incapable ones create havoc in them. This one had al- 
ready been refused, when Mr. Roberts suddenly ex- 
claimed : " Who was it made those announcements last 
night? She spoke with beautiful distinctness; let that 
young woman have the part, she'll do it all right." 

Oh, dear Mr. Roberts ! never " Cocky " to me ! Oh, 
wise little judge ! how I did honor him for those precious 
words : " Let that young woman have the part." That 
"young woman! I could have embraced him for very 
gratitude — a part and the term " young woman," and 
since, as my old washerwoman used to say, " it never 
rains but it pours," while these two words were still mak- 
ing music in my ears, by some flash of intuition I realized 
that I was being courted by Frank. The discovery filled 
me with the utmost satisfaction. I gave no thought to 
him, in a sentimental way, either then or ever; quite 
selfishly I thought only of my own gain in dignity and 
importance, for I started out in life with the old-fashioned 
idea that a man honored a woman by his courtship, and 
I knew naught of the lover who " loves and rides away." 
Yet in a few days the curious cat-like instinct of the un- 
conscious coquette awakened in me, and I began very 
gently to try my claws. 

I wished very much to know if he were jealous, as I had 
been told that real lovers were always so; and, naturally, 
I did not wish mine to fall short of any of the time-hon- 
ored attributes of loverdom. Therefore I, one morning, 
selected for experimental use a man whose volume of 
speech was a terror to all. Had he been put to the sword, 
he would have talked to the swordsman till the final blow 
cut his speech. He was most unattractive, too, in ap- 
pearance, being one of those actors who get shaved after 
rehearsal instead of before it, thus gaining a reputation 
for untidiness that facts may not always justify — but he 
served my purpose all the better for that. 

I deliberately placed myself at his side; I was only a 
ballet-girl, but I had two good ears — I was welcome. 



USEFUL KNOWLEDGE 93 

Conversation, or rather the monologue, burst forth. 
Standing at the side of the stage, with rehearsal going 
on, he of course spoke low. I watched for Frank's ar- 
rival. He came, I heard his cheery " Good-morning, 
ladies ! good-morning, gentlemen ! " and then he started 
toward me, but I heard nothing, saw nothing of him. 
My upraised eyes, as wide as I possibly could make them, 
were fixed upon the face of the talker. Yet, with a jump 
of the heart, I knew the brightness had gone from Frank's 
face, the spring from his step. I smiled as sweetly as I 
knew how ; I seemed to hang upon the words of the 
untidy one, and oh! if Frank could only have known 
what those words were ; how I was being assured that 
he, the speaker, had that very morning succeeded in 
stopping a leaky hole in his shoe by melting a piece of 
india-rubber over and on it, and that not a drop of 
water had penetrated when he had walked through the 
rain-puddles; and right there, like music, there came to 
my listening ear a word of four letters — a forbidden 
word, but one full of consolation to the distressed male; 
a word beginning with " d," and for fear that you may 
think it was " dear," why, I will be explicit and say that 
it was " damn ! " and that it was from the anger-whitened 
lips of Frank, who during the morning gave not only to 
me, but to all lookers-on, most convincing proof of his 
jealousy, and that was the beginning of my experiments. 

I did this, to see if it would make him angry. I did 
that, to see if it would please him. Sometimes I scratched 
him with my investigating claws, then I was sorry — 
truly sorry, because I was grateful always for his gentle 
goodness to me, and never meant to hurt him. But he 
represented the entire sex to me, and I was learning all 
I could, thinking, as I once told him, that the knowledge 
might be useful on the stage some time, and I wondered 
at the very fury my words provoked in him. 

We quarrelled sometimes like spiteful children, as 
when I, startled into laughter by hearing his voice break 
in a speech, unfortunately excused myself by saying: 



94 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" It was just like a young rooster, you know! " and he, 
white with anger, cried : " You're a solid mass of rude- 
ness, to laugh at a misfortune ; you have no breeding ! " 

This brought from me the rejoinder : " I know it, 
but you would have shown better breeding yourself had 
you not told me of it ! " 

And then he was on his knee in the entrance, begging 
forgiveness, and saying his " cursed, cracking voice made 
a madman of him ! " 

As it really did, for he often accused people of guying 
him if they did but clear their own throats. And so we 
went on till something in his manner — his increased ef- 
forts to find me alone at rehearsal, for as I was without 
a room-mate in Columbus, I could not receive him at 
home, and I truly think he would have kept silence for- 
ever rather than have urged me to break any conven- 
tional rule of propriety — this something gave me the idea 
that Frank was going to be — well — explicit, that — 
that — I was going to be proposed to according to es- 
tablished form. 

Now, though a proposal of marriage is a thing to look 
forward to with desire, to look back upon with pride, it 
is also a thing to avoid when it is in the immediate future, 
and I so successfully evaded his efforts to find me alone, 
at the theatre or at some friend's house, that he was 
forced at last to speak at night, while escorting me home. 

I lodged in a quiet little street, opening out of the 
busier,, more noisy Kinsman Street. In our front yard 
there lived a large, greedy old tree, which had planted 
its foot firmly in the very middle of the path, thus forc- 
ing everyone to chasse around it who wished to enter the 
house. Its newly donned summer greenery extended far 
over the gate, and as the moon shone full and fair the 
" set " was certainly appropriate. 

We reached the gate, and I held out my hand for my 
bag — that small catch-all of a bag that, in the hand of 
the actress, is the outward and visible sign of her pro- 
fession; but he let the bag slip to the walk and caught 



AN INTERRUPTED PROPOSAL 95 

my hand in his. The street was deserted. Leaning 
against the gate beneath the sheltering boughs of the 
old tree, the midnight silence all about us, he began to 
speak earnestly. 

I made a frantic search through my mind for some- 
thing to say presently, when my turn would come to 
speak. I rejected instantly the ancient wail of " sudden- 
ness." Frank's temper did not encourage an offer of 
" sisterhood." I was just catching joyously at the idea 
of hiding behind the purely imaginary opposition of my 
mother, when Frank's words : Then, too, dear heart ! 
I could protect you, and — " were interrupted by a yowl, 
so long, so piercing, it seemed to rise like 'a rocket of 
anguish into the summer sky. 

" Oh ! " I thought, " that's one-eared Jim from next 
door, and if our Simmons hears him — and he'd have to 
be dead not to hear — he will come out to fight him ! " 
I clenched my teeth, I dropped my eyes that Frank might 
not see the threatening laughter there. I noted how much 
whiter his hand was than mine, as they were clasped in 
the moonlight. The pause had been long; then, very 
gently, he started again : " Mignonne ! " 

Distinctly I heard the thump of Simmons's body drop- 
ping from the porch-roof. " Mignonne, look up ! you 
big-eyed child, and tell me that I may go to your mother 
with your promise ! " 

"Mi-au! Mi-au! Wow! Spit! Spit! Wow!" 
Four balls of fire glowed for a moment beneath the tree, 
then two dark forms became one dark form, that whirled 
and bounded through space, emitting awful sounds. The 
cats were too much for me, I threw back my head and 
laughed. 

My laugh was too much for Frank. His temper broke, 
he flung my hand away, crying out : " Laugh, you little 
idiot! You're worse than the animals, for they at least 
know no better ! Laugh till morning, if you like ! " and 
then I'm sorry to say it, but he kicked my bag, the 
precious insignia of my profession, and rushed down the 



96 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

street, leaving me standing there amid the debris of the 
wrecked proposal. 

Next night he frigidly presented himself to escort me 
home, and when I coldly declined his company, he turned 
silently and left me. Truth to tell, I did not enjoy my 
walk alone, through the market-place in particular, and 
I planned to unbend a little the next evening; but I was 
much piqued to find myself without an excuse for un- 
bending, since on the next evening he did not offer his 
company. The third night there was a big lump in my 
throat, and the tears would have fallen had they not 
been suddenly dried in my eyes by the sight of a familiar 
light-gray suit slipping along close to the houses on the 
other side of the way. Petulant, irritable, loyal-hearted 
boy! he had safe-guarded me both those nights when I 
thought I was alone! My heart was warm with grati- 
tude toward him, and when I reached my gate, and passed 
inside, I called across the street : " Thank you, Frank ! 
Good-night ! " 

And he laughed and answered : " Good-night, Mign- 
onne ! " 

And so it came about that Frank's wooing, being of 
the strict and stately order, I gradually came to be Miss 
Morris to others beside himself. I saw my advance in 
dignity, and if I did not love him I gave him profound 
gratitude, and we were true friends his short and hon- 
orable life through. 



CHAPTER FOURTEENTH 

Mr. Wilkes Booth comes to us, the whole Sex Loves 
him — Mr. Ellsler Compares him to his Great Father — 
Our Grief and Horror over the Awful Tragedy at Wash- 
ington. 

IN glancing back over those two crowded and busy 
seasons one figure stands out with such clearness and 
beauty that I cannot resist the impulse to speak of 
him, rather than of my own inconsequential self. In his 
case only (so far as my personal knowledge goes) there 
was nothing derogatory to dignity or to manhood in 
being called beautiful, for he was that bud of splendid 
promise, blasted to the core before its full triumphant 
blooming — known to the world as a madman and an 
assassin — but to the profession as " that unhappy boy," 
John Wilkes Booth. 

He was so young, so bright, so gay, so kind. I could 
not have known him well. Of course, too, there are two 
or three different people in every man's skin, yet when 
we remember that stars are not generally in the habit of 
showing their brightest, their best side to the company 
at rehearsal, we cannot help feeling both respect and lik- 
ing for the one who does. 

There are not many men who can receive a gash over 
the eye in a scene at night without at least a momentary 
outburst of temper, but when the combat between Rich- 
ard and Richmond was being rehearsed, Mr. Booth had 
again and again urged Mr. McCollom (that six-foot tall 
and handsome leading man, who entrusted me with the 
care of his watch during such encounters) to " Come on 
hard ! Come on hot ! Hot, old fellow ! Harder — 
faster ! " He'd take the chance of a blow, if only they 
could make a hot fight of it. 

97 



98 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

And Mr. McCollom, who was a cold man, at night 
became nervous in his effort to act like a fiery one. He 
forgot he had struck the full number of head blows, and 
when Booth was pantingly expecting a thrust, McCollom, 
wielding his sword with both hands, brought it down 
with awful force fair across Booth's forehead. A cry 
of horror rose, for in one moment his face was masked 
in blood, one eybrow being cut cleanly through. There 
came, simultaneously, one deep groan from Richard, and 
the exclamation : " Oh, good God ! good God ! " from 
Richmond, who stood shaking like a leaf and staring at 
his work. Then Booth, flinging the blood from his eyes 
with his left hand, said, as genially as man could speak : 
" That's all right, old man ! never mind me — only come 
on hard, for God's sake, and save the fight ! " 

Which he resumed at once, and though he was per- 
ceptibly weakened, it required the sharp order of Mr. 
Ellsler to " ring the first curtain bell," to force him to 
bring the fight to a close, a single blow shorter than 
usual. Then there was a running to and fro, with ice 
and vinegar paper and raw steak and raw oysters. When 
the doctor had placed a few stitches where they were 
most required, he laughingly declared there was pro- 
vision enough in the room to start a restaurant. Mr. 
McCollom came to try to apologize, to explain, but Booth 
would have none of it; he held out his hand, crying: 
" Why, old fellow, you look as if you had lost the blood. 
Don't worry. Now if my eye had gone, that would have 
been bad ! " And so, with light words, he tried to set 
the unfortunate man at ease, and though he must have 
suffered much mortification as well as pain from the eye, 
that in spite of all endeavors would blacken, he never 
made a sign. 

He was, like his great elder brother, rather lacking 
in height, but his head and throat, and the manner of 
its rising from his shoulders, were truly beautiful. His 
coloring was unusual, the ivory pallor of his skin, the 
inky blackness of his densely thick hair, the heavy lids 



JOHN WILKES BOOTH 99 

of his glowing eyes, were all Oriental, and they gave a 
touch of mystery to his face when it fell into gravity; 
but there was generally a flash of white teeth behind his 
jilky mustache, and a laugh in his eyes. 
(** One thing I shall never cease to admire him for. 
When a man has placed a clean and honest name in his 
wife's care for life, about the most stupidly wicked use 
she can make of it is as a signature to a burst of amatory 
flattery, addressed to an unknown actor, who will despise 
her for her trouble. Some women may shrivel as though 
attacked with " peach-leaf curl " when they hear how 
these silly letters are sometimes passed about and laughed 
at. " No gentleman would so betray a confidence ! " Of 
course not ; but once when I made that remark to an 
actor, who was then flaunting the food his vanity fed 
upon, he roughly answered : " And no lady would so 
address an unknown man. She cast away her right to 
respectful consideration when she thrust that letter in 
the box/' That was brutal ; but there are those who 
think like him this very day, and oh, foolish tamperers 
with fire, who act like himjy 

Now it is scarcely an exaggeration to say the sex was 
in love with John Booth, the name Wilkes being appar- 
ently unknown to his family and close friends. At depot 
restaurants those fiercely unwilling maiden-slammers of 
plates and shooters of coffee-cups made to him swift and 
gentle offerings of hot steaks, hot biscuits, hot coffee, 
crowding round him like doves about a grain basket, 
leaving other travellers to wait upon themselves or go 
without 'refreshment. At the hotels, maids had been 
known to enter his room and tear asunder the already 
made-up bed, that the " turn-over " might be broader 
by a thread or two, and both pillows slant at the perfectly 
correct angle. At the theatre, good heaven ! as the sun- 
flowers turn upon their stalks to follow the beloved sun, 
so old or young, our faces smiling, turned to him. Yes, 
old or young, for the little daughter of the manager, who 
played but the Duke of York in " Richard III.," came to 

LcfC. 



ioo LIFE ON THE STAGE 

the theatre each day, each night of the engagement, ar- 
rayed in her best gowns, and turned on him fervid eyes 
that might well have served for Juliet. The manager's 
wife, whose sternly aggressive virtue no one could doubt 
or question, with the aid of art waved and fluffed her 
hair, and softened thus her too hard line of brow, and 
let her keen black eyes fill with friendly sparkles for us 
all — yet, 'twas because of him. And when the old 
woman made to threaten him with her finger, and he 
caught her lifted hand, and uncovering his bonnie head, 
stooped and kissed it, then came the wanton blood up 
in her cheek as she had been a girl again. 

His letters then from flirtatious women, and, alas! 
girls, you may well believe were legion. A cloud used 
to gather upon his face at sight of them. I have of 
course no faintest idea that he lived the godly, righteous, 
and sober life that is enjoined upon us all, but I do re- 
member with respect that this idolized man, when the 
letters were many and rehearsal already on, would care- 
fully cut off every signature and utterly destroy them, 
then pile the unread letters up, and, I don't know what 
their final end was, but he remarked with knit brows, 
as he caught me watching him at his work one morning: 
" They," pointing to the pile of mutilated letters, " they 
are harmless now, little one ; their sting lies in the tail ! " 
and when a certain free and easy actor, laughingly picked 
up a very elegantly written note, and said : " I can read 
it, can't I, now the signature is gone ? " He answered, 
shortly : " The woman's folly is no excuse for our 
knavery — lay the letter down, please ! " 

I played the Player-Queen to my great joy, and in the 
" Marble Heart " I was one of the group of three statues 
in the first act. We were supposed to represent Lais, 
Aspasia, and Phryne, and when we read the cast, I glanced 
at the other girls (we were not strikingly handsome), 
and remarked, gravely : " Well, it's a comfort to know 
that we look so like the three beautiful Grecians." 

A laugh at our backs brought us around suddenly to 



MR. BOOTH'S TACT 101 

face Mr. Booth, who said to me : " You satirical little 
wretch, how do you come to know these Grecian ladies? 
Perhaps you have the advantage of them in being all- 
beautiful within ? " 

" I wish it would strike outward, then," I answered ; 
" you know it's always best to have things come to the 
surface ! " 

" I know some very precious things are hidden from 
common sight, and I know, too, you caught my meaning 
in the first place; good-night." And he left us. 

We had been told to descend to the stage at night with 
our white robes hanging free and straight, that Mr. Booth 
himself might drape them as we stood upon the pedestal. 
It really is a charming picture, that of the statues in the 
first act. Against a backing of black velvet, the three 
white figures, carefully posed, strongly lighted, stand out 
so marble-like, that when they slowly turn their faces 
and point to their chosen master, the effect is uncanny 
enough to chill the looker-on. 

Well, with white wigs, white tights, and white robes, 
and half strangled with the powder we had inhaled in 
our efforts to make our lips stay white, we cautiously 
descended the stairs. We dared not talk, we dared not 
blink our eyes, for fear of disturbing the coat of powder ; 
we were lifted to the pedestal and took our places as we 
expected to stand. Then Mr. Booth came, such a pict- 
ure in his Greek garments as made even the men exclaim 
at him, and began to pose us. It happened that one of 
us had very good limbs, one medium good, and the third 
had apparently walked on broom-sticks. When Mr. 
Booth slightly raised the drapery of No. 3, his features 
gave a twist as though he had suddenly tasted lemon- 
juice, but, quick as a flash, he said: " I believe I'll ad- 
vance you to the centre, for the stately and wise Aspasia." 
The central figure wore her draperies hanging straight 
to her feet, hence the " advance " and consequent con- 
cealment of the unlovely limbs. It was quickly and 
kindly done, for the girl was not only spared mortifica- 



102 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

tion, but in the word " advance " she saw a compliment, 
and was happy accordingly. Then my turn came; my 
arm was placed about Aspasia, my head bent and turned 
and twisted, my right hand curved upon my breast, so 
that the forefinger touched my chin; I felt I was a per- 
sonified simper, but I was silent and patient until the 
arrangement of my draperies began — then I squirmed 
anxiously. 

" Take care, take care ! " he cautioned, " you will sway 
the others if you move ! " But, in spite of the risk of my 
marble make-up, I faintly groaned : " Oh, dear ! must 
it be like that ? " 

Regardless of the pins in the corner of his mouth, he 
burst into laughter, and taking a photograph from the 
bosom of his Greek shirt, he said : " I expected a pro- 
test from you, miss, so I came prepared ; don't move your 
head, but just look at this." 

He held the picture of a group of statuary up to me: 
" This is you on the right ; it's not so dreadful, now, 
is it ? " and I cautiously murmured, that if I wasn't any 
worse than that I wouldn't mind. 

And so we were all satisfied and our statue scene was 
very successful. 

Next morning I saw Mr. Booth come running out of 
the theatre on his way to the telegraph office at the cor- 
ner, and right in the middle of the walk, staring about 
him, stood a child — a small roamer of the stony streets, 
who had evidently got far enough beyond his native ward 
to arouse misgivings as to his personal safety, and at the 
very moment he stopped to consider matters, Mr. Booth 
dashed out of the stage-door and added to his bewilder- 
ment by capsizing him completely. 

" Oh, good Lord ! Baby, are you hurt ? " exclaimed 
Mr. Booth, pausing instantly to pick up the dirty, tous- 
elled, small heap and stand it on its bandy legs again. 

" Don't cry, little chap ! " and the aforesaid little chap 
not only ceased to cry but gave him a damp and grimy 
smile, at which the actor bent toward him quickly, but 



IMPROMPTU BUSINESS 103 

paused, took out his handkerchief, and first carefully 
wiping the dirty little nose and mouth, stooped and 
kissed him heartily, put some change in each freckled 
paw, and continued his run to the telegraph office. 

He knew of no witness to the act. To kiss a pretty, 
clean child under the approving eyes of mamma might 
mean nothing but politeness, but surely it required the 
prompting of a warm and tender heart to make a young 
and thoughtless man feel for and caress such a dirty, 
forlorn bit of babyhood as that. 

fOi his work, I suppose I was too young and too igno- 
rant to judge correctly, but I remember well hearing the 
older members of the company express their opinions^) 
Mr. Ellsler, who had been on terms of friendship with 
the elder Booth, was delighted with the promise of his 
work. He greatly admired Edwin's intellectual power, 
his artistic care, but " John," he cried, " has more of the 
old man's power in one performance than Edwin can 
show in a year. He has the fire, the dash, the touch of 
strangeness. He often produces unstudied effects at 
night. I question him, ' Did you rehearse that business 
to-day, John ? ' he answers : ' No, I didn't rehearse it, 
it just came to me in the scene, and I couldn't help doing 
it ; but it went all right, didn't it ? ' Full of impulse, 
just now, like a colt, his heels are in the air, nearly as 
often as his head, but wait a year or two till he gets 
used to the harness, and quiets down a bit, and you will 
see as great an actor as America can produce ! " 

And, by the way, speaking of Mr. Ellsler and the elder 
Booth, I am reminded that I have in my possession a 
letter from the latter to the former. It is written in a 
rather cramped hand, that carries the address and the 
marks of the red wafers, as that was before the appear- 
ance of envelopes, and it informs Mr. Ellsler that he, 
" Junius Brutus Booth, will play a star engagement of 
one week for the sum of — " how many dollars? if it 
were not unguessable, I should insist upon your guess- 
ing, but that would not be fair, so here it is — " for the 



104 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

sum of three hundred dollars," and wants to know how 
many and what plays he is desired to do, that he may 
select his wardrobe. 

Think of it — the mighty father of our Edwin asking 
but $300 for a week of such acting as he could do, which, 
if this bright, light-hearted boy was so much like him, 
must have been brilliant indeed. 

One morning, going on the stage where a group were 
talking with John Wilkes, I heard him say : " No ! no, 
no ! there's but one Hamlet to my mind, that's my brother 
Edwin. You see, between ourselves, he is Hamlet, 
melancholy and all ! " 

That was an awful time when the dread news came 
to us. We were in Columbus. We had been horrified 
by the great crime at Washington. My room-mate and 
I had from our small earnings bought some black cotton, 
at a tripled price, as all the black material in the city was 
not sufficient to meet the demand, and as we tacked it 
about our one window, a man, passing, told us the assassin 
had been discovered, and that he was the actor Booth. 
Hattie laughed so she nearly swallowed the tack that, 
girl-like, she held between her lips, and I, after a laugh, 
told him it was a poor subject for a jest, and we went 
in. There was no store in Columbus then where play- 
books were sold, and as Mr. Ellsler had a very large and 
complete stage library, he frequently lent his books to 
us, and we would hurriedly copy out our lines and re- 
turn the book for his own use. On that occasion he was 
going to study his part first and then leave the play with 
us as he passed going home. We heard his knock; I 
was busy pressing a bit of stage finery. Hattie opened 
the door, and then I heard her exclaiming : " Why — 
why — what ? " I turned quickly. Mr. Ellsler was com- 
ing slowly into the room. He is a very dark man, but he 
was perfectly livid then, his lips even were blanched to 
the whiteness of his cheeks. His eyes were dreadful, they 
were so glassy and seemed so unseeing. He was de- 
voted to his children, and all I could think of as likely 



THE SLAYER OF LINCOLN 105 

to bring such a look upon his face was disaster to one 
of them, and I cried, as I drew a chair to him, " What 
is it? Oh, what has happened to them?" 

He sank down, he wiped his brow, he looked almost 
stupidly at me, then, very faintly, he said : " You — 
haven't — heard — anything ? " 

Like a flash Hattie's eyes and mine met; we thought 
of the supposed ill-timed jest of the stranger — my lips 
moved wordlessly. Hattie stammered : " A man, he 
lied though, said that Wilkes Booth — but he did lie 
— didn't he ? " and in the same faint voice Mr. Ellsler 
answered, slowly : "No — no ! he did not lie — it's too 
true!" 

Down fell our heads and the waves of shame and sor- 
row seemed fairly to o'erwhelm us, and while our sobs 
filled the little room, Mr. Ellsler rose and laid two play- 
books on the table. Then, while standing there, staring 
into space, I heard his far, faint voice, saying : " So 
great, so good a man destroyed, and by the hand of that 
unhappy boy ! my God ! my God ! " He wiped his brow 
again and slowly left the house, apparently unconscious 
of our presence. 
/ When we resumed our work — the theatre had closed 
because of the national calamity — many a painted cheek 
showed runnels made by bitter tears, and one old actress, 
with quivering lips, exclaimed : " One woe doth tread 
upon another's heel, so fast they follow ! " but with no 
thought of quoting, and God knows the words expressed 
the situation perfectly.,/'' 

Mrs. Ellsler, whom I never saw shed a tear for any 
sickness, sorrow, or trouble of her own, shed tears for 
the mad boy who had suddenly become the assassin of 
God's anointed — the great, the blameless Lincoln! 
/ We crept about, quietly, everyone winced at the sound 
of the overture; it was as if one dead lay within the 
walls, one who belonged to us. 

When the rumors about Booth being the murderer 
proved to be authentic, the police feared a possible out- 



106 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

break of mob-feeling, and a demonstration against the 
theatre building, or against the actors individually; but 
we had been a decent, law-abiding, well-behaved people, 
liked and respected, so we were not made to suffer 
for the awful act of one of our number. Still, when 
the mass-meeting was held in front of the Capitol, there 
was much anxiety on the subject, and Mr. Ellsler urged 
all the company to keep away from it, lest their presence 
might arouse some ill-feeling. The crowd was immense ; 
the sun had gloomed over, and the Capitol building, 
draped in black, loomed up with stern severity and that 
massive dignity only obtained by heavily columned build- 
ings. The people surged like waves about the speakers' 
stand, and the policemen glanced anxiously toward the 
new theatre, not far away, and prayed that some bom- 
bastic, revengeful ruffian might not crop up from this 
mixed crowd of excited humanity to stir them to 
violence. 

Three speakers, however, in their addresses had con- 
fined themselves to eulogizing the great dead. In life, 
Mr. Lincoln had been abused by many ; in death, he was 
worshipped by all, and these speakers found their words 
of love and sorrow eagerly listened to, and made no harsh 
allusions to the profession from which the assassin 
sprang. And then an unknown man clambered up from 
the crowd to the portico platform and began to speak, 
without asking anyone's permission. He had a far- 
reaching voice — he had fire and " go." 

" Here's the fellow to look out for ! " said the police- 
man, and, sure enough, suddenly the dread word " the- 
atre " was tossed into the air, and everyone was still in 
a moment, waiting for — what ? I don't know what they 
hoped for, I do know what many feared; but this is 
what he said : " Yes, look over at our theatre and think 
of the little body of men and women there, who are to- 
day sore-hearted and cast down, who feel that they are 
looked at askant, because one of their number has com- 
mitted that hideous crime ! Think of what they have to 



PLAYING HIS LAST PART 107 

bear of shame and horror, and spare for them, too, a 
little pity ! " 

He paused ; it had been a bold thing to do — to appeal 
for consideration for actors at such a time. The crowd 
swayed for a moment to and fro, a curious growling 
came from it, and then all heads turned toward the 
theatre. A faint cheer was given, and after that there 
was not the slightest allusion made to us — and verily 
we were grateful. 

That the homely, tender-hearted " Father Abraham, " 
rare combination of courage, justice, and humanity, died 
at an actor's hand will be a grief, a horror, and a shame 
to the profession forever — yet I cannot believe that 
John Wilkes Booth was " the leader of a band of bloody 
conspirators ! " 

Who shall draw a line and say : here genius ends and 
madness begins ? There was that touch of " strangeness." 
In Edwin Booth it was a profound melancholy ; in John 
it was an exaggeration of spirit, almost a wildness. 
There was the natural vanity of the actor, too, who craves 
a dramatic situation in real life. There was his passion- 
ate love and sympathy for the South — why, he was 
"easier to be played on than a pipe ! " 

Undoubtedly he conspired to kidnap the President — 
that would appeal to him, but after that I truly believe 
he was a tool, certainly he was no leader. Those who 
led him knew his courage, his belief in fate, his loyalty 
to his friends; and because they knew these things, he 
drew the lot, as it was meant he should from the first. 
Then, half mad, he accepted the part Fate cast him for 
— committed the monstrous crime and paid the awful 
price. 

And since, 

" God moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform," 

we venture to pray for His mercy upon the guilty soul ! 
who may have repented and confessed his manifold sins 



108 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

and offences during those awful hours of suffering be- 
fore the end came. 

And " God shutteth not up His mercies forever in dis- 
pleasure ! " We can only shiver and turn our thoughts 
away from the bright light that went out in such utter 
darkness. Poor, guilty, unhappy John Wilkes Booth! 



CHAPTER FIFTEENTH 

Mr. R. E. J. Miles — His two Horses, and our Woful 
Experience with the Substitute "Wild Horse of Tar- 
tary." 

BUT there, just as I start to speak of my third sea- 
son, I seem to look into a pair of big, mild eyes 
that say : " Can it be that you mean to pass me 
by? Do you forget that 'twas I who turned the great 
sensation scene of a play into a side-splitting farce ? " 
And I shake my head and answer, truthfully : " I can- 
not forget, I shall never forget your work that night in 
Columbus, when you appeared as the ' fiery, untamed 
steed ' (may Heaven forgive you) in * Mazeppa.' ,: 

Mr. Robert E. J. Miles, or " All the Alphabet Miles," 
as he was frequently called, was starring at that time in 
the Horse Drama, doing such plays as " The Cataract 
of the Ganges," " Mazeppa," " Sixteen-String Jack," etc. 
" Mazeppa " was the favorite in Columbus, and both the 
star and manager regretted they had billed the other plays 
in advance, as there would have been more money in 
" Mazeppa " alone. Mr. Miles carried with him two 
horses ; the one for the " Wild Horse of Tartary " was 
an exquisitely formed, satin-coated creature, who looked 
wickedly at you from the tail of her blazing eye, who 
bared her teeth savagely, and struck out with her fore- 
feet, as well as lashed out with the hind ones. When 
she came rearing, plunging, biting, snapping, whirling, 
and kicking her way on to the stage, the scarlet lining 
of her dilating nostrils and the foam flying from her 
mouth made our screams very natural ones, and the 
women in front used to huddle close to their compan- 
ions, or even cover their faces. 

109 



no LIFE ON THE STAGE 

One creature only did this beautiful vixen love — R. 
E. J. Miles. She fawned upon him like a dog; she did 
tricks like a dog for him, but she was a terror to the 
rest of mankind, and really it was a thrilling scene when 
Mazeppa was stripped and bound, his head tail-ward, his 
feet mane-ward, to the back of that maddened beast. 
She seemed to bite and tear at him, and when set free 
she stood straight up for a dreadful moment, in which 
she really endangered his life, then, with a wild neigh, 
she tore up the " runs," as if fiends pursued her, with 
the man stretched helplessly along her inky back. The 
curtain used to go up again and again — it was so very 
effective. 

For a horse to get from the level stage clear above 
the " flies," under the very roof, the platforms or runs 
he mounts on have to zig-zag across the mountain back- 
ground. 

At each angle, out of sight of the audience, there is a 
railed platform, large enough for the horse to turn upon 
and make the next upward rush. 

The other horse travelling with Mr. Miles was an en- 
tirely different proposition. He would have been de- 
scribed, according to the State he happened to be in, as 
a pie-bald, a skew-bald, a pinto, or a calico horse. He 
was very large, mostly of a satiny white, with big, ab- 
surdly shaped markings of bright bay. He was one of 
the breed of horses that in livery stables are always 
known as " Doctor " or " Judge." Benevolence beamed 
from his large, clear eyes, and he looked so mildly wise, 
one half expected to see him put on spectacles. The boy 
at the stable said one day, as he fed him : " I wouldn't 
wunder if this ol' parson of 'er a hoss asked a blessin' on 
them there oats — I wouldn't ! " 

I don't know whether old Bob — as he was called — 
had any speed or not, but if he had it was useless to him, 
for, alas ! he was never allowed to reach the goal under 
any circumstances. He was always ridden by the villain, 
and therefore had to be overtaken, and besides that he 



THE WILD HORSE OF TARTARY 1 1 1 

generally had to carry double, as the desperado usually 
lied holding the fainting heroine before him. Though 
old Bob successfully leaped chasms thus heavily handi- 
capped — for truly he was a mighty jumper — neverthe- 
less he was compelled to accept defeat, as Mr. Miles al- 
ways came rushing up on the black horse to the rescue. 
He was very lucky indeed, if he didn't have to roll about 
and die, and he was a very impatient dead horse, often 
amusing the audience by lifting his head to see if the cur- 
tain was not down yet, and then dropping dead again with 
a sigh the whole house could hear. 

By the way, " the house " is a theatrical term, mean- 
ing, on an actor's lips, " the audience." " The house did 
thus or so," " the house is behaving beautifully," " it's 
the most refined house you ever saw," " what a cold 
house " ; and so on. I have but rarely heard either actor 
or actress refer to the " audience " — and after steadily 
using any term for years it is very hard to lay it aside, 
and I shall long remember the grim moment that fol- 
lowed on my remarking to my rector, " What a good 
house you had yesterday — it must have been a pleasure 
to pla — to, to — er, er, to address such an audi — er, that 
is, I mean congregation ! " There was a moment of icy 
silence, then, being a human being as well as a wearer 
of the priestly collar, he set back his head and laughed 
a laugh that was good to hear. 

Anyway, being continually pushed back into second 
place and compelled to listen to the unearned applause 
bestowed upon the beautiful black seemed to rob old 
Bob of all ambition professionally, and he simply became 
a gourmet and a glutton. He lived to eat. A woman 
in his eyes was a sort of perambulating store-house of 
cake, crackers, apples, sugar, etc. ; only his love for chil- 
dren was disinterested. The moment he was loose he 
went off in search for children, no matter whose, so long 
as he found some ; then down he would go on his knees, 
and wait to be pulled and patted. His silvery tail pro- 
vided hundreds of horse-hair rings — and his habit of 



112 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

gathering very small people up by their back breadths 
and carrying them a little way before dropping them, 
only filled the air with wild shrieks of laughter. In the 
theatre he walked sedately about before rehearsal began, 
and though we knew his attentions were entirely selfish, 
he was so urbane, so complaisant in his manner of going 
through us, that we could not resist his advances, and 
each day and night we packed our pockets and our muffs 
with such provender as women seldom carry about in 
their clothes. All our gloves smelled as though we 
worked at a cider-mill. While the play was going on 
old Bob spent a great part of his time standing on the 
first of those railed platforms, and as he was on the same 
side of the stage that the ladies' dressing-rooms were on, 
everyone of us had to pass him on our way to dress, 
and he demanded toll of all. Fruits, domestic or foreign, 
were received with gentle eagerness. Cake, crackers, and 
sugar, the velvety nose snuffed at them approvingly, and 
if a girl, believing herself late, tried to pass him swiftly 
by, his look of amazement was comical to behold, and 
in an instant his iron-shod foot was playing a veritable 
devil's tattoo on the resounding board platform, and if 
that failed to win attention, following her with his eyes, 
he lifted up his voice in a full-chested " neigh — hay — 
hay — ha-ay ! " that brought her back in a hurry with her 
toll of sugar. And that pie-bald hypocrite would scrunch 
it with such a piteously ravenous air that the girl quite 
forgot the basilisk glare and satirical words the landlady 
directed against her recently-acquired sweet-tooth. My 
own landlady had, as early as Wednesday, covered the 
sugar-bowl and locked the pantry, but she left the salt- 
bag open, and I took on a full cargo of it twice a day, 
and old Bob showed such an absolute carnality of en- 
joyment in the eating of it that Mr. Miles became con- 
vinced that it had long been denied to him at the stables. 
Then, late in the week, there came that dreadful night 
of disaster. I don't recall the name of the play, but in 
that one piece the beautiful, high-spirited bla,ck mare had 



QUEEN'S LAST RUN 113 

to carry double up the runs. John Carroll and Miss Lucy 
Cutler were the riders. Mr. Carroll claimed he could 
ride a little, and though he was afraid he was ashamed 
to say so. Mr. Miles said in the morning: "Now, if 
you are the least bit timid, Mr. Carroll, say so, and I 
will fasten the bridle-reins to the saddle-pommel and the 
Queen will carry you up as true as a die and as safe as 
a rock of her own accord ; but if you are going to hold 
the bridle, for God's sake be careful ! If it was old Bob, 
you could saw him as much as you liked and he would 
pay no attention, and hug the run for dear life; but the 
Queen, who has a tender mouth, is besides half mad with 
excitement at night, and a very slight pressure on the 
wrong rein will mean a forty or fifty-foot fall for you 
all ! " 

Miss Cutler expressed great fear, when Mr. Miles, sur- 
prisedly, said : " Why, you have ridden with me twice 
this week without a sign of fear ? " " Oh, yes," she 
answered, " but you know what you are doing — you are 
a horseman." 

It was an unfortunate speech, and in face of it Mr. 
Carroll's vanity would not allow him to admit his anxi- 
ety. " He could ride well enough — and he would 
handle the reins himself," he declared. 

During the day his fears grew upon him. Foolishly 
and wickedly he resorted to spirits to try to build up 
some Dutch courage; and then, when the scene came 
on, half blind with fear and the liquor, which he was 
not used to, as he felt the fierce creature beneath them 
rushing furiously up the steep incline, a sort of madness 
came upon him. Without rhyme or reason he pulled 
desperately at the nigh rein and in the same breath their 
three bodies were hurling downward, like thunder- 
bolts. 

It was an awful sight! I looked at them as they 
descended, and for the' fraction of a second they seemed 
to be suspended in the air. They were all upside down. 
They all, without turning or twisting, fell straight as 



114 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

plummets — the horse, the same as the man and woman, 
had its feet straight in the air. Ugh! the striking — 
ugh! — never mind details! The curtain had been 
rushed down. Miss Cutler had been picked up, dazed, 
stunned, but without a mark. Mr. Carroll had crept 
away unaided amid the confusion, the sorrow, and tears, 
for the splendid Queen was doomed and done for ! 
Though Mr. Miles had risked his own life in an awful 
leap to save her from falling through a trap, he could 
not save her life, and the almost human groan with which 
she dropped her lovely head upon her master's shoulder, 
and his streaming eyes as he tenderly wiped the blood 
from her velvety nostrils, made even the scene-shifters 
rub their eyes upon the backs of their hands. While the 
Queen was half carried and half crept to the fire-engine 
house next door (her stable was so far away), someone 
was going before the curtain, assuring the audience that 
the accident was very slight, and the lady and gentle- 
man would both be before them presently, and the audi- 
ence applauded in a rather doubtful manner, for several 
ladies had fainted, and the carrying out of a helpless 
person from a place of amusement always has a depress- 
ing effect upon the lookers-on. Meantime Mr. Carroll was 
getting his wrist bandaged and a cut on his face strapped 
up, while a basket of sawdust was hurriedly procured 
that certain cruel stains might be concealed. The or- 
chestra played briskly and the play went on. That's the 
one thing we can be sure of in this world — that the 
play will go on. That night, late, the beautiful Queen 
died with her head resting on her master's knee. 

Now " Mazeppa " was billed for the next night, and 
there were many consultations held in the orifice and on 
the stage. " The wild horse of Tartary " was gone. It 
was impossible to find a new horse in one day. 

" Change the bill ! " said Mr. Miles. 

" And have an empty house," answered Mr. Ellsler. 

" But what can I do for a horse ? " asked R. E. J. M. 

" Use old Bob," answered Mr. Ellsler. 



THE FIERY, UNTAMED STEED 115 

"Good Lord!" groaned Bob's master. They argued 
long, but neither wanted to lose the good house, so the 
bill was allowed to stand, and " Mazeppa " was per- 
formed with old white Bob as the " Wild Horse of Tar- 
tary." Think of it, that ingratiating old Bob! That 
follower of women and playmate of children! Why, 
even the great bay blotches on his white old hide made 
one think of the circus, paper hoops, and training, rather 
than of wildness. Meaning to make him at least impa- 
tient and restless, he had been deprived of his supper, 
and the result was a settled gloom, an air of melancholy 
that made Mr. Miles swear under his breath every time 
he looked at him. There was a ring, known I believe as 
a Spanish ring, made with a sharp little spike attachment, 
and used sometimes by circus-men to stir up horses to 
a show of violence or of high spirits, and when a whip 
was not permissible. It could be resorted to without 
arousing any suspicion of cruelty, since the spike was on 
the under side and so out of sight. The man with the 
ring on his finger would stand by a horse, and resting 
his hand on the animal's neck, just at the most sensitive 
spot of his whole anatomy — the root or end of his mane 
— would close the hand suddenly, thus driving the spike 
into the flesh. It must have caused exquisite pain, and 
naturally the tormented animal rears and plunges. Some- 
times they get effect enough by pricking the creatures on 
the shoulder only. On that night, Mr. Miles, after gaz- 
ing at the mild and melancholy features of his new 
" Wild Horse of Tartary," went to his room and dug 
up from some trunk a Spanish ring. Calling one of the 
men who used to be dragged and thrashed about the 
stage by the black wild horse, he explained to him its 
use, ending with : " I hate to hurt the old fellow, so try 
him on the shoulder first, and if he dances about pretty 
lively, as I think he will, you need not prick his mane 
at all." 

The play moved along nicely, the house was large, and 
seemed pleased. Mazeppa fell into his enemy's hands, 



n6 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

the sentence was pronounced, and the order followed: 
" Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed ! " 

The women began to draw close to their escorts ; 
many of them remembered the biting, kicking entrance 
of the black, and were frightened beforehand. The or- 
chestra responded with incidental creepy music, but — 
that was all. Over in the entrance, old Bob, surrounded 
by the four men who were supposed to restrain him, stood 
calmly. But those who sat in the left box heard " get- 
ups ! " and " go-ons ! " and the duckings of many tongues. 
The mighty Khan of Tartary (who could not see that 
entrance) thought he had not been heard, and roared 
again : " Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed ! " An- 
other pause, the house tittered, then some one hit old Bob 
a crack across the rump with a whip, at which he gave 
a switch of his tail and gently ambled on the stage, 
stopping of his own accord at centre, and, lowering his 
head, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the leader of 
the orchestra, precisely as a dog sniffs at a stranger. It 
was deliciously ridiculous. We girls were supposed to 
scream with terror at the " wild horse," and, alas ! we 
were only too obedient, crowding down at right, clinging 
together in attitudes of extremest fright, we shrieked and 
screeched until old Bob cocked up his ears and looked 
so astonished at our conduct that the audience simply 
rocked back and forth with laughter, and all the time 
Mazeppa was saying things that did not seem to be like 
prayers. Finally he gave orders for the men to surround 
Bob, which they did, and then the ring was used — the 
ring that was to make him dance about pretty lively. It 
pricked him on the shoulder, and the " wild horse " stood 
and switched his tail. It pricked him again — he switched 
his tail again. The men had by that time grown care- 
less, and when the ring was finally used at his mane, he 
suddenly kicked one of them clear off the stage, and then 
resumed his unruffled calm. The public thought it was 
having fun all this time, but pretty soon it knew it. 
Nothing under heaven could disturb the gentle serenity 



ANYTHING BUT FIERY 117 

of that dog-like old horse. But when Mazeppa was 
brought forward to be bound upon his back, instead of 
pulling away, rearing, and fighting against the burden, 
his one and only quick movement was his violent effort 
to break away from his tormentors to welcome Mazeppa 
joyously. 

" Oh ! " groaned Miles, " kill him ; somebody, before 
he kills me ! " 

While he was being bound on the wild horse's back, 
our instructions were to scream, therefore we screamed 
as before, and being on the verge of insanity, Mazcppa 
lifted his head from the horse's back, and said : " Oh, 
shut up — do ! " The audience heard, and — well, it 
laughed some more, and then it discovered, when the 
men sprang away and left the horse free to dash madly 
up the mountain, that Mazeppa had kept one foot un- 
bound to kick his horse with — and truly it did seem 
that the audience was going into convulsions. Such 
laughter, pierced every now and then by the shrill scream 
of hysteria. Then old Bob ambled up the first run all 
right, but, alas! for poor Mazeppa, as he reached the 
first turn-table, a woman passed on the way to her room, 
and hungry Bob instantly stopped to negotiate a loan in 
sugar. Oh, it was dreadful, the wait, and when finally 
he reappeared, trotting — yes, trotting up the next run, 
Mr. Miles's foot could be plainly seen, kicking with the 
regularity of a piston-rod, while his remarks were — 
well, they were irregular in the extreme. 

Of course the play was hopelessly ruined; the audi- 
ence laughed at the slightest mention of the " wild horse," 
and when, broken and exhausted, the shepherds find 
them both lying at the foot of the mountain, the house 
seemed to shake with laughter. 

When the play was at last over, old white Bob walked 
over to his master and mumbled his hand. Mr. Miles 
pushed him away with pretended anger, crying : " You 
infernal old idiot, I'd sell you for a three-cent stamp 
with gum on it ! " 



n8 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Bob looked hard at him a moment, then he calmly 
crossed behind him and mumbled his other hand, and 
Mr. Miles pulled his ears, and said that " he himself 
was the idiot for expecting an untrained, unrehearsed 
horse to play such a part," and old Bob agreeing with 
him perfectly, they were, as always, at peace with each 
other. 



CHAPTER SIXTEENTH 

I perform a Remarkable Feat, I Study King Charles in 
One Afternoon and Play Without a Rehearsal — Mrs. 
D. P. Bowers makes Odd Revelation. 

ALREADY in that third season my position had 
become an anomalous one, from that occasion 
when, because of sickness, I had in one afternoon 
studied, letter perfect, the part of King Charles in " Faint 
Heart Never Won Fair Lady," and played it in borrowed 
clothes and without any rehearsal whatever, other than 
finding the situations plainly marked in the book. It was 
an astonishing thing to do, and nearly everyone had a 
kind word for me. The stage manager, or rather the 
prompter, for Mr. Ellsler was his own stage manager, 
patted me on the shoulder and said : " Ton my soul, 
girl, you're a wonder! I think pretty well of my own 
study, but you can beat me. You never missed a word, 
and besides that I've seen the part played worse many 
a time. I don't know what to say to you, my dear, but 
a girl that can do that can do most anything." 

Ah, yes ! and that was just what the powers that were 
seemed to think — that I could do almost anything, for 
from that day I became a sort of dramatic scape-goat, 
to play the parts of the sick, the halt, the cross, the 
tricky, for whenever an actor or actress turns up with 
a remarkable study — the ability to learn almost any part 
in a given time — he or she is bound to be " put upon." 
Sickness will increase, tempers will get shorter, airs of 
superiority will be assumed, all because there is some- 
one ready to play the obnoxious part, someone ready to 
rush into the breach and prevent the changing of the 
" bill." 

119 



120 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

So often was I playing parts, thus leaving only two 
in the ballet, that another girl was engaged. Thus to 
Hattie, Annie, and Clara there was added Mary. And 
lo! in this young woman I recognized a friend of my 
youth. I had known her but two days, but I could never 
forget the only child I had ever had a play with. She 
had parted from me in wrath because, after playing 
house-keeping all morning in the yard, I had refused to 
eat a clay dumpling she had made, with a nice green 
clover-leaf in its middle. She threw the dumpling at me, 
roaring like a little bull calf, and twisting a dirty small 
fist into each dry eye, she waddled off home, leaving me, 
finger in mouth, gazing in pained amazement after her, 
until my fat little legs suddenly gave way^ as was their 
wont in moments of great emotion, and sat me unwill- 
ingly but flatly down upon the ground, where I remained, 
looking gravely at them and wondering what they did 
it for — and now here we were together again. 

Of course this playing of many parts was, in a cer- 
tain way, an advantage to me, and I appreciated it; but 
there can be too much even of a good thing. That I got 
little pay for all this work was nothing to me, I was 
glad to do it for the experience it gave me, but when I 
was forced to appear ridiculous through my inability to 
dress the parts correctly I suffered cruelly. Once in a 
while, as in the case of King Charles, I could get a cos- 
tume from the theatre wardrobe, where the yellow plush 
breeches lived when not engaged in desolating my young 
life, but, alas! here, as everywhere, the man is the fa- 
vored party, and the theatre wardrobe contains only mas- 
culine garments ; the women must provide everything for 
themselves. Then, too, one is never too young or too 
insignificant to feel an injustice. 

I recall, very distinctly, having to go on for Lady Anne 
in " Richard III.," with a rather unimportant star. Now 
had I " held a position." as the term goes, that part 
would, out of courtesy, have belonged to me for the rest 
of the season, unless I chose to offer it back to the woman 



PLAYING MANY PARTS 121 

I had obliged; but being only a ballet-girl I did well 
enough for the Lady Anne of an unimportant star, but 
when a more popular Richard appeared upon the scene, 
Lady Anne was immediately reclaimed, and I traipsed 
again behind the coffin, and with the rest of the ballet 
was witness to that most savage fling of Shakespeare 
against a vain, inconsequential womanhood as personi- 
fied in Lady Anne, who, standing by her coffined, mur- 
dered dead, eagerly drinks in the flattery offered by the 
murderer's self. It is a courtship all dagger-pierced and 
reeking with innocent blood — monstrous and revolting ! 
One would like to know who the woman was whose in- 
credible vanity and levity so worked upon the master's 
mind that he produced this tragic caricature. Who was 
the woman who inspired great Shakespeare's one un- 
natural scene? Come, antiquaries, chcrchcz la femmei 

I suffered most when I had to play some lady of qual- 
ity, for what, in heaven's name, had I to dress a lady 
in? Five dollars a week to live on, to dress myself on, 
and to provide stage wardrobe! Many a bitter tear I 
shed. And then there was the surprise of the stars, when 
after playing an important part one night, they suddenly 
recognized me the next standing in the crowd of peas- 
ants or seated at Macbeth 's disheartening banquet. 

Their comments used to be very caustic sometimes, 
and they almost, without exception, advised me to rebel, 
to go and demand freedom from the ballet, or at least 
salary enough to dress the parts given me to play. But 
those long years of childish thraldom had left their mark 
— I could not assert myself, an overwhelming shame 
came upon me, even at the thought of asking to be ad- 
vanced. So I went on playing boys and second old 
women, singing songs when forced to it, going on* for 
poor leading parts even, for the leading lady being the 
manager's wife rarely played parts with women stars, and 
then between times dropping back into the ballet and 
standing about in crowds or taking part in a village dance. 

It was a queer position and no mistake. Many stars 



122 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

had grown to know me, and often on Monday morning 
he or she would come over to our group and shake hands 
kindly, to my great pleasure. One morning, while we 
were rehearsing " Lady Audley's Secret," Mrs. Bowers, 
whom I greatly admired, came over to me, and remarked : 
" You hard-hearted little wretch ! I've been watching 
you; you are treating that boy shamefully! Don't you 
know Murdoch is a gentleman ? " 

I was surprised, and rather quickly answered : " Well, 
have I treated him as if he were not a gentleman ? " 

She was called just then, but when the act was over 
she came to me again, and taking my hand in her right, 
she began beating it up and down upon her left : " You 
are not vexed, are you ? " she asked. " Don't be ; I only 
wonder how you can do it, and you are so young ! Why," 
she sighed, from her very soul it seemed to me, " Why," 
she went on, " ever since I was fourteen years old I have 
been loving some man who has not loved me ! " Tears 
rose thickly into her eyes. " I am always laying my heart 
down for some man to trample on ! " She glanced 
toward Mr. McCollom (he who was six feet tall and 
handsome), a little smile trembled on her lips. I caught 
her fingers on a swift impulse and squeezed them, she 
squeezed back answeringly; we understood each other, 
she was casting her heart down again, unasked. Her 
eyes came back to me. " Yours is the best way, but I'm 
too old to learn now, I shall have to go on seeking — 
always seeking ! " 

" And finding, surely finding ! " I answered, honestly, 
for I could not imagine anyone resisting her. 

" Do you think so ? " she said, eagerly ; then, rather 
sadly, she added : " Still it would be nice to be sought 
once, instead of always seeking." 

Poor woman ! Charming actress as she was, she did 
not exaggerate in declaring she was always casting her 
heart before someone. She married Mr. McCollom, and 
lived with him in adoring affection till death took him. 

The last time I saw her she was my guest here at " The 



MRS. BOWERS 123 

Pines," and as I fastened a great hibiscus flower above 
her ear, in Spanish fashion, she remarked: 

" How little you have changed in all these years ! I'll 
wager your heart is without a scar, while if you could 
only see mine," she laughed, " it's like an old bit of tinware 
— so battered, and bent, and dented ! " 



CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH 

Through Devotion to my Friend, I Jeopardize my Repu- 
tation — I Own a Baby on Shares — Miss Western's 
Pathetic Speech. 

I HAD at that time a friend — a rare possession 
that. " The ideal of friendship," says Madame 
Switchine, " is to feel as one while remaining two," 
which is a precise description of the condition of mind 
and feeling of Mrs. Mollie Ogden and myself. She did 
not act, but her husband did, and I saw her every night, 
nearly every morning, and when work permitted we 
visited one another in the afternoons. There was but 
one kind of cake on the market that I liked, and that 
cake, with coffee, was always offered for my refresh- 
ment when I was her guest. When she was mine the 
festal board was furnished forth with green tea, of which 
she was inordinately fond, and oysters stewed in their 
own can and served in two mugs; the one announcing, 
in ostentatious gold letters, that I was " a good girl," 
was naturally at the service of my guest, while the plain 
stone-china affair, from the toilet-table, answered my 
purposes. With what happy eagerness we prepared for 
those absurd banquets, which we heartily enjoyed, since 
we were boarders, and always hungry — and how we 
talked ! Of what ? Why, good heaven ! did I not hold 
a membership in the library, and were we not both light- 
ning-quick readers? Why, we had the whole library 
to talk over ; besides, there was the country to save ! and 
as Mollie didn't really know one party from the other, 
she felt herself particularly fitted for the task of settling 
public questions. 

Then, suddenly, she began to expect another visitor 

124 



A PARTNERSHIP BABY 125 

— a wee visitor, whom we hoped would remain perma- 
nently, and, goodness mercy ! 1 nearly lost my reputation 
through the chambermaid finding in my work-basket 
some half-embroidered, tiny, tiny jackets. Whereupon 
she announced to the servants, in full assembly, that I 
had too soft a tongue, and was deeper than the sea, but 
she had her eyes open, and, judging from what she found 
in my work-basket, I was either going to buy a monkey 
for a pet, or I had thrown away my character completely. 

Mrs. Ogden was with me when the landlady, stony- 
eyed and rattling with starch and rectitude, came to in- 
quire into the contents of my work-basket. Her call was 
brief, but satisfactory, and shortly after her exit we heard 
her, at the top of her lungs, giving me a clean bill of 
health — morally speaking — and denouncing the prying 
curiosity of the maids. But we had had a scare, and 
Mollie implored me either not to help her any more or 
to lock up my work-basket. 

" Oh, no," I said, " I'll rest my head upon the cham- 
bermaid's breast and confide all my intentions to her, 
then surely my character will be safe." 

However, when the wee stranger arrived, she might 
well have wondered whom she belonged to. At all events 
she " goo-gooed and gurgled," and smiled her funny 
three-cornered smile at me as readily as at her mother, 
and my friendly rights in her were so far recognized by 
others that questions about her were often put to me in 
her mother's very presence, who laughingly declared 
that only in bed with the light out did she feel absolutely 
sure that the baby was hers. 

Mollie used to say the only really foolish thing she ever 
caught me in was " Protestantism." It was a great grief 
to us all that I could not be godmother, but though baby 
had a Protestant father, the Church flatly refused to wink 
at a godmother of that forsaken race. 

When, in God's good time, a tiny sister came to baby, 
she was called Clara, but my friend had made a solemn 
vow before the altar, at the ripe age of seven years, to 



126 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

name her first child Genevieve, and she, to quote her hus- 
band, " being a Roman Catholic as well as a little idiot," 
faithfully kept her vow, and our partnership's baby was 
loaded up with a name that each year proved more un- 
suitable, for a more un-Genevieve-like Genevieve never 
lived. All of which goes to prove how unwise it is to 
assume family cares and duties before the arrival of the 
family. 

Miss Lucille Western was playing an engagement in 
Cleveland when " our baby " was a few months old. My 
friend and I were both her ardent admirers. I don't 
know why it has arisen, this fashion to sneer more or less 
openly at Miss Western's work. If a woman who charms 
the eye can also thrill you, repel you, touch you to tears, 
provoke you to laughter by her acting, she surely merits 
the term " great actress." Well, now, who can deny that 
she did all these things? Why else did the people pack 
her houses season after season? It was not her looks, 
for if the perfect and unblemished beauty of her lovely 
sister Helen could not draw a big house, what could you 
expect from the inspired irregularity of Lucille's face? 
How alive she was ! She was not quite tall enough for 
the amount of fine firm flesh her frame then carried — 
but she laced, and she was grace personified. 

She was a born actress; she knew nothing else in all 
the world. There is a certain tang of wildness in all 
things natural. Dear gods ! Think what the wild straw- 
berry loses in cultivation! Half the fascination of the 
adorable Jacqueminot rose comes from the wild scent of 
thorn and earth plainly underlying the rose attar above. 
And this actress, with all her lack of polish, knew how 
to interpret a woman's heart, even if she missed her best 
manner. For in all she did there was just a touch of 
extravagance — a hint of lawless, unrestrained passion. 
There was something tropical about her, she always sug- 
gested the scarlet tanager, the jeweled dragon-fly, the 
pomegranate flower, or the scentless splendor of our wild 
marshmallow. 



MISS LUCILLE WESTERN 127 

In " Lucretia Borgia " she presented the most perfect 
picture of opulent, insolent beauty that I ever saw, while 
her " Leah, the Forsaken " was absolutely Hebraic ; and 
in the first scene, where she was pursued and brought to 
bay by the Christian mob, her attitude, as she silently 
eyed her foes, her face filled both with wild terror and 
fierce contempt, was a thing to thrill any audience, and 
always received hearty applause. 

So far as looks went, she was seen to least advantage 
in her greatest money-maker, " East Lynne." Oh, dear ! 
oh, dear! the tears that were shed over that dreadful 
play, and how many I contributed myself! I would 
stand looking on from the entrance, after my short part 
was over, and when she cried out : " Oh, why don't I 
die ! My God ! why don't I die ? " I would lay my head 
against the nearest scene and simply howl like a broken- 
hearted young puppy. I couldn't help it, neither could 
those in front help weeping — more decorously per- 
haps, because they were older and had their good 
clothes on. 

Now this brilliant and successful actress was not very 
happy — few are, for one reason or another — but she 
worked much harder than most women, and natu- 
rally liked to have some return for her work; there- 
fore she must have found it depressing, at least, when 
her husband formed the habit of counting up the house 
by eye (he could come to within $5 of the money con- 
tents of the house any night in this way), and then going 
out and losing the full amount of her share in gambling. 
It was cruel, and it was but one of the degradations put 
upon her. Lucille did not know how to bear her troubles. 
She wept and used herself up. Then, to get through her 
heavy night's work, she took a stimulant. Oh, poor soul ! 
poor soul ! though the audience knew nothing, the people 
about her knew she was not her best self ; and she knew 
they knew it, and was made sore ashamed and miserable. 
Her husband, on one occasion, had gambled away every 
cent of three nights' work. On the fourth she had had 



128 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

resource to a stimulant, and on the fifth she was cast 
down, silent, miserable, and humiliated. 

That night " our baby " came to the theatre. She was 
one of those aggressively sociable infants, who will reach 
out and grasp a strange whisker rather than remain un- 
noticed. She had pretty little, straight features and small, 
bright eyes that were fairly purply blue. I had her — 
of course in so public a place it was my right to have 
her — she was over my shoulder. I was standing near 
the star-room. The door opened and next moment I 
heard a long, low, " O-o-h ! " and then again, " O-o-h ! 
a — baby, and awake! and the peace of heaven yet in 
its eyes ! " 

I turned my head to look at Miss Western, and her 
face quickened my heart. Her glowing eyes were fast- 
ened upon " baby," with just the rapt, uplifted look one 
sees at times before some Roman Catholic altar. It was 
beautiful ! She gave a little start and exclaimed, as at a 
wonder : " Its hand ! oh, its tiny, tiny hand ! " Just 
with the very tip of her forefinger she touched it, and 
"baby" promptly grasped the finger and gurgled cordially. 
Her face flushed red, she gave a gasp : " Good God ! " she 
cried, " it's touching me, me ! It is, see — see ! " Sud- 
den tears slipped down her cheeks. " Blessed God ! " she 
cried, " if you had but sent me such a one, all would have 
been different! I could never bring disgrace or shame 
on a precious thing like this ! " 

As she raised the tiny morsel of a hand to her lips 
the prompter sharply called : " The stage waits, Miss 
Western ! " and she was gone. 

Poor, ill-guided, unhappy woman! it was always and 
only the stage that waited Miss Western. 



CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH 

Mr. Charles W. Couldock — His Daughter Eliza and his 
Many Peculiarities. 

THERE was one star who came to us every sea- 
son with the regularity and certainty of the 
equinoctial storm, and when they arrived together, 
as they frequently did, we all felt the conjunction to 
be peculiarly appropriate. He was ' neither young nor 
good-looking, yet no one could truthfully assert that his 
engagements were lacking in interest — indeed, some 
actors found him lively in the extreme. Charles W. 
Couldock was an Englishman by birth, and had come to 
this country with the great Cushman. He was a man 
of unquestionable integrity — honorable, truthful, warm- 
hearted; but being of a naturally quick and irritable 
temper, instead of trying to control it, he yielded himself 
up to every impulse of vexation or annoyance, while with 
ever-growing violence he made mountains out of mole- 
hills, and when he had just cause for anger he burst into 
paroxysms of rage, even of ferocity, that, had they not 
been half unconscious acting, must have landed him in a 
mad-house out of consideration for the safety of others ; 
while, worst of all, like too many of his great nation, he 
was profane almost beyond belief ; and profanity, always 
painfully repellent and shocking, is doubly so when it 
comes from the lips of one whose silvering hair shows his 
days have already been long in the land of the God whom 
he is defying. And yet when Mr. Couldock ceased to 
use plain, every-day oaths, and brought forth some home- 
made ones, they were oaths of such intricate construction, 
such grotesque termination, that they wrung a startled 
laugh from the most unwilling lip. 

129 



130 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

In personal appearance he was the beau-ideal wealthy 
farmer. He was squarely, solidly built, of medium height 
— never fat. His square, deeply-lined, even-furrowed 
face was clean shaven. His head, a little bald on top, 
had a thin covering of curly gray hair, which he wore 
a trifle long ; while his suit of black cloth — always a 
size or two too large for him — and his never-changing 
big hat of black felt were excuse enough for any man's 
asking him about the state of the crops — which they 
often did, and were generally urgently invited to go to 
the hottest Hades for their pains. 

On his brow there was a deep and permanent scowl 
that seemed cut there to the very bone. Two deep, heavy 
lines ran from the Udes of his nose to the corners of his 
lips, where they suddenly became deeper before continu- 
ing down toward his chin, while a strong cast in one of 
his steely-blue eyes gave a touch of malevolence to the 
severity of his face. 

The strong point of his acting was in the expression 
of intense emotion — particularly grief or frenzied rage. 
He was utterly lacking in dignity, courtliness, or subtlety. 
He was best as a rustic, and he was the only creature I 
ever saw who could " snuffle " without being absurd or 
offensive. 

Generally, if anything went wrong, Mr. Couldock's 
rage broke forth on the instant, but he had been known 
to keep a rod in pickle for a day or more, as in the case 
of a friend of mine — at least it was the husband of my 
friend Mollie. He had played Salanio in " The Merchant 
of Venice," and in some way had offended the star, who 
cursed him sotto voce at the moment of the offence, and 
then seemed to forget all about the matter. Next morn- 
ing, at rehearsal, nothing was said till its close, when Mr. 
Couldock quite quietly asked my friend to look in at his 
dressing-room that evening before the play began. 

Poor John was uneasy all the afternoon, still he drew 
some comfort from the calmness of Mr. Couldock's man- 
ner. Evening came, John was before the bar. The star 



MR. COULDOCK'S TEMPER 131 

seemed particularly gentle — he removed his coat leis- 
urely and said : 

" You played Salanio last night? " 

" Yes, sir/' 

"And your name is — er?" 

" Ogden, sir," replied John. 

" Ah, yes, Ogden. Well, how long have you been at 
it, Ogden ? " 

" About three years," answered the now confident and 
composed prisoner at the bar. 

"Three years? huh! Well, will you let me give you 
a bit of advice, Ogden? " 

" Why, yes, sir, I shall be glad to listen to any advice 
from you," earnestly protested the infatuated one. 

" Well," snapped the star, rather snarply, " I want you 
to follow it as well as to listen to it. Now you take some 
money — you have some money saved, I suppose?" 

" Oh, yes, sir ! " answered John. 

" Well, then," he turned his queer eye on him, he took 
a long, full breath, " well, then, you just get some of that 
money, and you go to a hardware store," his rage was 
rising visibly, " and you buy a good sharp hatchet, and 
then I want you to take it home and chop your d — d fool 
head off ! " and ripping off his vest he made a furious 
charge upon the almost paralyzed Ogden, clouting him 
from the room, while roaring like a bull. 

He had played one set of plays so long he had lost the 
power to study quickly, and he was so ill-advised once 
as to attempt a new part, on rather short notice. The 
play was a miserable jumble of impossible situations and 
strained, high-flown language ; and, of all absurd things, 
Mr. Couldock attempted to play a young Irish hero, with 
a love-scene — in fact he was supposed to represent the 
young Emmet. Dear heaven ! what a sight he was, in 
those buckskin riding breeches (his legs were not beyond 
suspicion as to their straightness), that cutaway green 
coat, and the dinky little conical hat, looking so mali- 
ciously " larky," perched over his fiercest eye. He forgot 



132 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

all his lines, but he never forgot his profanity, and that 
night it took on a wild originality that was simply con- 
vulsing. In one scene he had to promise to save his be- 
loved Ireland. He quite forgot the speech, and being 
reminded of it by the prompter, he roared at the top of 
his voice : " I don't care ! what the devil's Ireland to 
me ! d — n Ireland ! I wish it and the man that wrote 
this play were both at the bottom of the sea, with cock- 
eyed sharks eatin' 'em ! " Then he suddenly pulled out 
his part and began to search wildly for his next scene, 
that he might try to recall his lines ; at this he continued 
till he was called to go upon the stage, then he made a 
rush, and in a moment the house was laughing. 

" Oh, dear ! what was it ? " Everyone ran to peep 
on the stage. Mr. Couldock had discovered they were 
laughing at him, and was becoming recklessly furious. 
Mr. Ellsler, fearing he would insult the people, hastily 
rang down the curtain. Then Mr. Couldock, as Emmet, 
faced round to us, and the laughter was explained. When 
he was reading over his part he had put on a big pair of 
spectacles, and when he hurried on he simply pushed 
them up and left them there. A young lover with big, 
old-fashioned spectacles on his forehead and a perky lit- 
tle conical hat looking down on them was certainly an 
unusual sight and an amusing one. 

One of Mr. Couldock's most marked characteristics 
was the amazingly high pitch of his voice in speaking. 
Anyone who has heard two men trying to converse across 
a large open field has had a good illustration of his style 
of intonation, which anger raised to a perfect shriek. 
The most shocking exhibition of rage I ever saw came 
from him during a performance of " Louis XI." Annie 
and I, as pages, were standing each side of the throne, 
holding large red cushions against our stomachs. My 
cushion supported a big gilded key, until, in my fright, 
I actually shook it off, for when Mr. Couldock's passion 
came upon him on the stage his violence created sad 
havoc in the memories of the actors. The audience, too, 



AN ENRAGED STAR 133 

could hear many of his jibes and oaths, and Mr. Ellsler 
was very angry about it, for in spite of his affection for 
the man, he drew the line at the insulting of the audi- 
ence; therefore, when the curtain fell, Mr. Ellsler said: 
" Charley, this won't do ! you must control yourself in 
the presence of the public ! 

The interference seemed to drive him mad. A volley 
of oaths, inconceivably blasphemous, came from his lips, 
and then, with a bound, he seized the manuscript (it was 
not a published play then, and the manuscript was valu- 
able) and tore it right down the centre. Mr. Ellsler and 
the prompter caught his right hand, trying to save the 
play, but while they held that he lifted the rest of the 
manuscript and tore it to pieces with his teeth, growling 
and snarling like a savage animal. Then he broke away 
and rushed frantically up-stairs to Mr. Ellsler's dressing- 
room, where he locked himself in. When it was time to 
call the next act he gave no answer to their knocking, 
though he could be heard swearing and raving within. 
Mr. Ellsler finally burst open the door, and there stood 
Louis XL in his under-garments, and his clothing — 
where? It was a tiny room, nevertheless no velvet cos- 
tume could be found. The window, a long French one, 
was nailed up for winter — the clothes had not been 
thrown out. There was no stove yet, they had not been 
burned; where then were they? Another overture was 
played. Some of Mr. Ellsler's clothes were hastily 
brought — a nondescript covering for his royal naked- 
ness was found, and he went on to finish the perform- 
ance somehow, while the prompter guessed at the ring- 
ing down of the curtain, for there was no manuscript to 
guide him. 

Truly it had been a most humiliating spectacle. Many 
weeks later, when stoves were going up, the men dis- 
covered that someone had torn away the tin protector 
from the stove-pipe hole in Mr. Ellsler's room, and when 
they were replacing it they found, crammed tightly into 
a narrow space between the lath and plastering of the 



134 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

two rooms, the velvet garments of Louis XL, even to 
the cap with the leaden images. How he had discovered 
the place no one knows, and when his rage had passed 
he could not remember what he had done, but he could 
play Louis no more that season. 

We were always pleased when Mr. Couldock was ac- 
companied by his daughter. Eliza Couldock, bearing an 
absurdly marked resemblance to her father, of course 
could not be pretty. The thin, curly hair, the fixed frown, 
the deep lines of nose and mouth, the square, flat figure, 
all made of her a slightly softened replica of the old gen- 
tleman. Her teeth were pretty, though, and her hazel 
eyes were very brilliant. She was well read, clever, and 
witty, and her affectionate devotion to her father knew 
no bounds ; yet as she had a keen sense of the ridiculous, 
no eccentricity, no grotcsqucric of his escaped her laugh- 
ing, hawk-keen eye, and sometimes when talking to old 
friends, like Mr. and Mrs. Ellsler, she would tell tales 
of " poor pa " that were exceedingly funny. 

They went to California — a great undertaking then, 
as the Pacific Railroad was not completed, and they were 
most unsuccessful during their entire stay here. Eliza 
told one day of how a certain school-principal in 'Frisco 
had met her father after a performance to a miserable 
house, and with frightful bad taste had asked Mr. Coul- 
dock how he accounted for the failure of his engagement, 
and that gentleman snarled out : " I don't try to account 
for it at all ! I leave that work for the people who ask fool 
questions. If I only have one d — n cent in my pocket 
I don't try to account for not having another d — n cent 
to rub against it ! " And Eliza added, in pained tones : 
" that principal had meant to ask ' poor pa ' to come and 
speak to the dear little boys in his school, but after that 
he didn't — wasn't it odd ? " 

As Mr. Couldock was heard approaching that morn- 
ing, his daughter quickly whispered to Mrs. Ellsler: 
"Ask pa how he liked California?" 

And after " good-mornings " were exchanged, the ques- 



SKILFUL TRUNK UNPACKING 135 

tion was put, and incidentally the red rag brought the 
mad bull into action. 

" I wouldn't give a d — n for the whole d — d State ! " 
roared Mr. Couldock, while his daughter pushed his hair 
behind his ears, and mildly said : Pa's always so em- 
phatic about California." 

" Yes ! " shouted the old man, " and so would you be 
if you wore breeches and dared to speak the truth ! You 
see," he went on, " no one ever gave me even a hint, and it 
was just my cursed luck to go overland, risking my own 
d — n skin and Eliza's too, and it seems that those God- 
forsaken duffers look upon anyone coming to them by 
the overland route as a sort of outcast tramp. In fact, 
that's entering by the back-kitchen door to San Fran- 
cisco. You ought to go by sea, and come in at the front 
door of their blasted, stuck-up little city if you're to put 
any of their money in your purse or be allowed to keep 
any of your own." 

One morning we girls were boasting among ourselves 
of our abilities as packers. Hattie, my room-mate, 
thought she could pack a trunk the quickest, while I 
claimed I could pack one with the least injury to the 
contents. Miss Couldock, hearing us, exclaimed, laugh- 
ingly : " Oh, girls, poor pa could give you all points at 
that work, while his manner of unpacking is so original, 
so swift, and so thorough, I think I should explain it to 
you. First, I must tell you, that that slight bow to pa's 
legs is an annoyance to him on every occasion of life, 
save that of unpacking his trunks, then it is of great con- 
venience. You see, the trunks are brought up and 
dumped in the room. They don't have any locks, be- 
cause ' poor pa,' always losing the keys, has to kick the 
locks off during the first week that he owns them. Next 
they are unstrapped and opened, then pa yanks off the 
top spread from the bed and lays it open on the middle 
of the floor ; then he takes his place before the first trunk, 
straddles his feet well apart (see, now, how useful that 
bow becomes), and fires every single garment the trunk 



136 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

contains between his legs and on to the quilt. Having 
emptied the trunks with lightning swiftness, he claps 
down their covers for the rest of the week. Whenever 
he wants anything for the theatre, he straddles the pile 
on the quilt, and paws it wildly, but rapidly over, pull- 
ing out a shoulder-cape here, a doublet yonder, one boot 
from the top and its mate from the bottom — all these 
he pitches into the theatre-basket, and is happy for that 
day. When the w T eek is over, pa dumps into the nearest 
trunk all it will hold, and what's left over is pitched en 
masse into the next one. If there is any difficulty in 
closing the trunks he don't waste time in trying to re- 
arrange the things. There is such beautiful simplicity 
in all pa's actions, he just gets up and walks — well, 
perhaps stamps a little on the contents, until the lid 
closes quite nicely, for he is a very quick packer, is pa, 
though it's just possible that his method in some degree 
may explain his generally rumpled appearance on the 
stage. What should you think about it, girls ? " 

The old gentleman was always very kind to me and 
had the oddest pet name for me I ever heard. He used 
to hail me with : " Where's my crummie girl ? Well, 
Crummy, how are you ? " 

In answer to my amazed look, he explained one day 
that it was a Yorkshire term, and meant " plump or 
round faced." The only time he ever cursed me was 
when he gave me the cue in the wrong place, as he 
openly admitted, and I went on too soon in consequence. 
Aside, he swore so the air seemed blue — my legs shook 
under me. I did not know whether to speak or not. He 
rose, and putting his arm about me, he led me off the 
stage (I was playing his daughter), and as we crossed 
the stage, this is what he said — the words in paren- 
theses being asides to me, the other words being aloud 
for the audience: 

" (What in h — 11!) My little one! (you double d — n 
fool!) My bird, what brings you here? (Yes, what the 
blankety, blankety, blanknation does bring you here, 



AN APPEAL FOR AID 137 

crummie girl?) Get back to your nest, dearie! (and 
stay there, d — n you!)" as he gently pushed me off the 
stage. Next day when the prompter showed him his 
error he admitted it at once. 

He knew much sorrow and trouble, and before that 
last long streak of good fortune came to him, in New 
York, in " Hazel Kirke," he knew a time of bitter pov- 
erty. Eliza had died — a sweet and noble woman — and 
the loss was terrible to him. I was just winning success 
in the East when I was dumfounded one day at seeing 
Mr. Couldock standing, bowed and broken, before me, 
asking me for help. 

A star — dear God! could such things happen to a 
star ? I was so hurt for him, for his broken pride. When 
I could speak, I simply told him my salary, and that two 
(my mother and myself) were trying to live on it. 
" Oh ! " he cried, " crummie girl, why don't you demand 
your rights; your name is on everyone's lips, yet you 
are hungry ! Shall I speak for you ? " 

Poor old gentleman, I could not let him go empty 
away. I took one-half of my rent-money and handed it 
to him. I dared not ask my landlady to favor me fur- 
ther than that. His face lighted up radiantly — it might 
have been hundreds from his look. " Dearie ! " he said, 
" I'll pay this back to the penny. You can ill spare it, I 
see that, crummie girl, but, oh, my lass, it's worse to 
see another hungry than it is to hunger yourself. I'll 
pay it back ! " His eyes filled, he paused long, then he 
said, pathetically : " Some time, crummie girl, some 
time ! " 

My landlady granted me grace. Months passed away 
■ — many of them — waves went over me sometimes, but 
they receded before my breath was quite gone. Things 
were bettering a little, and then one day, when I came 
home from work, a man had called in my absence — an 
old man, who had left this little packet, and, oh ! he had 
been so anxious for its safety ! 

I opened it to find $25, all in bills of ones and twos. 



138 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Such a pathetic story those small bills told — they were 
for the crummie girl, " With the thanks of the obliged, 
Charles W. Couldock." 

He had kept his word; he was the only man in this 
profession who ever repaid me one dollar of borrowed 
money. Mr. Couldock was like some late-ripening fruit 
that requires a touch of frost for its sweetening. In his 
old age he mellowed, he became chaste of speech, his 
acting of strong, lovable old men was admirable. He was 
honored by his profession in life and honestly mourned 
in death — he would not have asked more. 



CHAPTER NINETEENTH 

I Come to a Turning-Point in my Dramatic Life — I play 
my First Crying Part with Miss Sallie St. Clair. 

WE were in Columbus ; things were moving along 
smoothly and quietly, when suddenly that inci- 
dent occurred which had the power to change 
completely my dramatic prospects, while at the same time 
it convinced the people about me, in theatrical parlance, 
my head was " well screwed on," meaning it was not to 
be turned by praise. 

Miss Sallie St. Clair was the star of trie week, and she 
was billed to appear on Friday and Saturday nights in 
an adaptation of " La Maison Rouge." I am not cer- 
tain as to the title she gave it, but I think it was " The 
Lone House on the Bridge." She was to play the dual 
characters — a count and a gypsy boy. The leading 
female part Mrs. Ellsler declined, because she would not 
play second to a woman. The young lady who had been 
engaged for the juvenile business (which comes between 
leading parts and walking ladies) had a very poor study, 
and tearfully declared she simply could not study the part 
in time — " No — no ! she co — co — could not, so now ! " 

There, then, was Blanche's chance. The part was sen- 
timental, tearful, and declamatory at the last, a good 
part — indeed, what is vulgarly known to-day as a " fat " 
part, " fat " meaning lines sure to provoke applause. 

Mrs. Bradshaw, who was herself ever ready to oblige 
her manager, could not serve him in this instance, as the 
part was that of a very young heroine, but she gladly 
offered her daughter's services in the emergency. So 
sending for her to come to the theatre, the mother awaited 
her arrival. She was very ambitious for Blanche, who 

139 



140 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

had absolutely no ambition for herself, outside of music, 
and here was the double opportunity of playing a lead- 
ing part, next to the star, and of obliging the manager 
just at the time when contracts for the next season were 
in order of consideration. No girl could help grasping 
at it eagerly, and while Blanche studied the part, she, 
the mother, would baste up some breadths of satin she 
had by her into a court dress. As she thus happily 
planned it all Blanche sauntered in to inform her mother 
and her manager that she would not do the part. Would 
not, mind you ; she did not condescend to claim she could 
not. Poor Mrs. Bradshaw drew her heavy veil over her 
face with a shaking hand and moved silently away, only 
waiting to reach the friendly privacy of her own room 
before yielding to the tears caused by this cruel indiffer- 
ence to her wishes and to their mutual welfare. 

Mr. Ellsler then tried, in vain, to induce Blanche to 
undertake the part. He tried to bribe her, promising 
certain gifts. He tried to arouse her pride — he abso- 
lutely commanded her to take the part. 

" Oh, very well, if you like," she answered, " but I'll 
spoil the play if I do, you know ! " And indeed he did 
" know " what she was capable of in the line of mischief ; 
and, knowing, gave her up in angry despair. There was 
then but one chance left for the production of the play, 
to give the part to one of the ballet-girls. 

And Mr. Ellsler, who felt a strong friendship for the 
brave, hard-working, much-enduring Miss St. Clair and 
her devoted if eccentric husband, said, gently : " I'm 
sorry, Sallie, but it's no fault of mine ; you know I can't 
give memories to these two women, who say they can't 
study the part. The girl I want to offer it to now will 
speak the words perfectly to the last letter, and that's all 
we can expect of her, but that's better than changing 
the bill." 

Then I was called. I adored Miss St. Clair, as every- 
one else did. I heard, I saw the long part, but instead 
of the instant smiling assent Mr. Ellsler expected, I 



MY FIRST CRYING PART 141 

shook my head silently. Miss St. Clair groaned, Mr. 
Barras snuffled loudly, and stammered : " W — what did 
you expect, if the others can't study it, how can she ? " 

" Oh," I answered, " I can study the lines, Mr. Bar- 
ras, but," big tears came into my eyes, I was so sorry to 
disappoint the lovely blond star, " it's — it's a crying 
part — a great lady and a crying part ! I — I — oh, if 
you please, I can't cry. I can laugh and dance and sing 
and scold, but I don't know how to cry ; and look here/' 
I caught up the part and fluttered over the leaves and 
pointed to the oft-repeated word " weeps — weeps," " and, 
Miss St. Clair," I excitedly finished, " I can't weep, and 
I won't have a stitch of clothes for her back either ! " 

All three hearers burst out laughing. Miss St. Clair 
was in radiant good-humor in an instant. She dried my 
eyes, and said : " Child, if you really can study that long 
part, and just walk through it after only one rehearsal, 
you will be a very clever little girl. You need not try 
to act, just give me the lines and hold a handkerchief to 
your eyes when tears are called for. You shall have one 
of my prettiest dresses for the court scene, and I guess 
you have a white muslin of your own for the garden 
scene, have not you ? " 

I had, yes, and so I went home, heavy-hearted, to un- 
dertake the study of my first crying part. 

Good heavens! In spite of this memory, I catch my- 
self wondering was there ever a first one — did I ever 
do anything else. For it seems to me I have cried steadily 
through all the years of my dramatic life. Tears gentle, 
regretful; tears petulant, fretful; tears stormy, pas- 
sionate; tears slow, despairing; with a light patter, now 
and then, of my own particular brand, kept for the ex- 
pression of my own personal troubles — very bitter, 
briny tears they are, and I find that a very few answer 
my purpose nicely. 

Miss St. Clair, who was tall as well as fair, had meas- 
ured the length of my skirt in front, so that she might 
have one of her dresses shortened for me during the 



142 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

afternoon, thus leaving me all the time possible for study. 
After I had learned the words by heart, I began to study 
out the character. It was an excellent acting part, very 
sweet and tenderly pathetic in the first act, very pas- 
sionate and fierce in the second, and the better I under- 
stood the requirements of the part, the greater became 
my terror of it. My room-mate tried to comfort me. 
" Think," she cried, " of wearing one of Miss St. Clair's 
own dresses! I'll wager it will be an awful nice one, 
too, since you are obliging her, and she is always kind, 
anyway." 

But that leaden weight at my heart was too great for 
gratified vanity to lift. " Bother the tears," she added ; 
" I heard Mr. Barras say the tears of all actresses were 
in their handkerchiefs." 

" Oh, yes, I heard him, too," I answered, " but he was 
just talking for effect. There must be something else, 
something more. You can't move anyone's heart by 
showing a handkerchief." 

" Well," she exclaimed, a bit impatiently, " what do 
you want to do? You don't expect to shed real tears, 
do you ? " 

" N-n-no ! " I hesitated, " not exactly that, but there's 
a tone — a — Hattie, last Wednesday, when you quar- 
relled with young Fleming — I was not present, you 
know — but that night, a half-hour after our light was 
out, you spoke to me in the darkness, and I instantly 
asked you why you were crying and if you had been 
quarrelling, though you had not even reached the sobbing 
stage yet. Now how did I know you were crying? " 

" I don't know — anyway I had no handkerchief," she 
laughed ; " you heard it maybe in my voice." 

" Yes," I answered, eagerly, " that was it. That curi- 
ous veiling of the voice. Oh, Hattie, if I could only get 
that tone, but I can't, I've tried and tried ! " 

" Why," she exclaimed, " you've got it now — this very 
moment ! " 

" Yes," I broke in impatiently, and turning to her a 



STAGE FRIGHTENED 143 

pair of reproachful, tear-filled eyes, " yes, but why ? be- 
cause I'm really crying, with the worry and the disap- 
pointment, and, oh, Hattie, the fright ! " 

And the landlady, a person who always lost one shoe 
when coming up-stairs, announced dinner, and I shud- 
dered and turned my face away. Hattie went down, 
however, and bringing all her blandishments to bear upon 
the head of the establishment, secured for me a cup of 
coffee — that being my staff in all times of trouble or of 
need, and then we were off to the theatre, Hattie kindly 
keeping at my side for companionship or help, as need 
might be. 

I did not appear in the first act, so I had plenty of time 
to receive my borrowed finery — to try it on, and then 
to dress in my own white muslin, ready for my first at- 
tempt at a crying part. It was a moonlit scene. Miss 
St. Clair, tall, slender, elegant, looked the young French 
gallant to the life in her black velvet court dress. I had 
to enter down some steps from a great stone doorway. 
I stood, ready to go on. I wore a mantilla with my mus- 
lin. I held a closed fan in my hand. My heart seemed 
to suffocate me — I thought, stupidly, Why don't I 
pray? " but I could not think of a single word. I heard 
the faint music that preceded my entrance — a mad panic 
seized me. I turned and dashed toward the street-door. 
Mr. Ellsler, who had just made his exit, caught me by 
the skirts. " Are you mad, girl ? " he cried ; " go back 
— quick — quick ! I tell you — there's your cue ! " 

Next moment, tremulous but smiling, I was descend- 
ing the steps to meet the counterfeit lover awaiting me. 
My head was on his breast and my arm stealing slowly 
about his neck before I knew that the closed fan in my 
hand was crushed into fragments and marks of blood 
showing between my clinched fingers. My first lines 
were simply recited, without meaning, then the tender 
words and courtly manners aroused my imagination. 
The glamour of the stage was upon me. The frightened 
actress ceased to exist — I was the Spanish girl whose 



144 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

long-mourned lover had returned to her ; and there was 
something lacking in the greeting, some tone of the voice, 
some glance of the eye seemed strange, alien. There 
was more of ardor, less of tenderness than before. My 
lips trembled ; suddenly I heard the veiled, pathetic tone 
I had all day striven for in vain, and curiously enough 
it never struck me that it was my voice — no! it was 
the Spanish girl who spoke. My heart leaped up in my 
throat with a great pity, tears rushed to my eyes, fell 
upon my cheeks. There was applause — of course, was 
not Miss St. Clair there? Suspicion arose in my mind 
— grew. I bethought me of the saving of my life on 
that stolen day passed in the forest long ago. I took my 
lover's hand and with pretty wiles drew him into the 
moonlight. Then swiftly stripping up the lace ruffles, 
showed his arm smooth and unblemished by any scar, 
and with the cry : " You are not Pascal de la Garde ! " 
stood horror-stricken. 

The moment the curtain fell Miss St. Clair sprang to 
me, and taking my face between her hands, she cried: 
" You would move a heart of stone ! " She wiped her 
eyes, and turning to her husband, said : " Good God ! 
she's a marvel ! " 

" No, no ! " he snuffled, " not yet, Sallie ; but she's a 
marvel in embryo ! " He patted me on the shoulder. 
" You have a fortune somewhere between your throat 
and your eyes, my girl — you have, indeed ! " 

And then I rushed to don my borrowed robes for the 
next act, and stared stupidly when Hattie said : " What 
lovely applause you got, Clara, and you so frightened; 
you shook all over when you went on, we could see you." 

But I was too excited over what was yet to be done 
really to comprehend her words. When I saw myself 
in the glass I was delighted. The open robe of pale blue 
satin, brocaded with silver, was lifted at the sides with 
big bunches of blush and deep-pink roses over a white 
satin petticoat. I wore a high Spanish comb, a white 
mantilla, a pink rose over the ear, after the national 



MAKING A HIT 145 

fashion, and a great cluster of roses at my breast, and 
for the first time I felt the subtle joy that emanates from 
beautiful and becoming garments. The fine softness of 
the rich fabric was pleasant to my touch — its silken rus- 
tle was music to my ear. Miss St. Clair had lent me of 
her best, and as I saw it all reflected there, I thought 
how easy it must be for the rich to be good and happy, 
never dreaming that the wealthy, who to escape ennui 
and absolute idleness sometimes did wrong simply be- 
cause there was nothing else to do, might think in turn, 
ah! how easy it must be for the poor to be good and 
happy. 

But the overture ended abruptly. I gathered up my 
precious draperies and ran to the entrance to be ready 
for my cue. The first speeches were cold, haughty, and 
satirical. The gypsy who was personating my dead lover 
had deceived everyone else^ even the half-blind old mother 
had accepted him as her son, though declaring him greatly 
changed in temper and in manner. But I, the sweetheart, 
was not convinced, and ignoring the advice of the high- 
est at the court, was fighting the adventurer with the 
courage of despair. 

As the scene went on, the stage hands (carpenters, gas- 
men, scene-shifters, etc.) began to gather in the en- 
trances, always a sign of something unusual going on. 
I saw them — an ugly thought sprang up in my mind. 
Ah, yes, they are there waiting to see the ballet-girl fail 
in a leading part! An unworthy suspicion, I am sure, 
but it acted as a spur would have done upon an already 
excited horse, and with the same result, loss of self- 
control. 

In the denunciation of the adventurer as a murderer 
and a personator of his own victim my passion rose to a 
perfect fury. I swept the stage, storming, raging, fear- 
ing nothing under heaven but the possible escape of the 
wretch I hated ! Vaguely I noted the manager reaching 
far over a balcony to see me — I didn't care even for the 
manager. The audience burst into tremendous applause ; 



146 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I didn't care for that either, I only wanted to see a rapier 
through the heart of the pale, sneering man before me. 
It was momentary madness. People were startled — the 
star twice forgot her lines. It was not correct, it was 
not artistic work. She^ the part, was a great lady, and 
even her passion should have been partially restrained; 
but I, who played her, a ballet-girl, earning $5 a week, 
what could you expect, pray, for the price? Certainly 
not polish or refinement. But the genuine feeling, the 
absolute sincerity, and the crude power lavished upon 
the scene delighted the audience and created a very real 
sensation. 

The curtain fell. Miss St. Clair took me into her kind 
arms and, without a word, kissed me heartily. The ap- 
plause went on and on. She caught my hand and said, 
" Come ! " As she led me to the curtain, I suddenly 
realized her intention, and a very agony of bashfulness 
seized upon me. I struggled frantically. " Oh, don't ! " 
I begged. " Oh, please, I'm nobody, they won't like it, 
Miss St. Clair." 

She motioned the men to pull back the curtain, and 
she dragged me out before it with her. The applause 
redoubled. Shamed and stupid, I stood there, my chin 
on my breast. Then I heard the laugh I so admired 
(Miss St. Clair had a laugh that the word merry de- 
scribes perfectly), her arm went about my neck, while 
her fingers beneath my chin lifted my face till I met her 
smiling glance and smiled back at her. Then the audi- 
ence burst into a great laugh, and bowing awkwardly to 
them and to her, I backed off, out of sight, as quickly 
as I could; she, bowing like a young prince, followed 
me. But again they called, and again the generous woman 
took me with her. 

And that was the first time I ever experienced the 
honor of going before the curtain with a star. I sup- 
posed I had received the highest possible reward for my 
night's work; I forgot there were such things as news- 
papers in the town, but I was reminded of their existence 
the next day. 



NEWSPAPER PRAISE 147 

Never, never was I so astonished. Such notices as 
were given of the performance, and what was particu- 
larly dwelt upon, think you ? Why, the tears. " Real 
tears — tears that left streaks on the girl's cheeks ! " 
said one paper. " Who is she — have you seen her — 
the wonderful Columbus ballet-girl, who wins tears with 
tears, real ones, too?" asked another. 

I was ashamed. I was afraid people would make fun 
of me at the theatre. At the box-office window that day 
many people were asking r " That girl that made the hit 
last night, is she really one of the ballet, or is it just a 
story, for effect? " 

Some women asked, anxiously : " Will that girl cry 
to-night, do you think? " 

It was very strange. One paper had a quieter article ; 
it spoke of a rough diamond — of an earnest, honest 
method of addressing speeches directly to the character, 
instead of to the audience, as did many of the older 
actors. It claimed a future, a fair, bright future for the 
girl who could so thoroughly put herself in another's 
place, and declared it would watch with interest the 
movements of so remarkable a ballet-girl. 

Now see how oddly we human dice are shaken about, 
and in what groups we fall, again and again. Among 
the honorable gentlemen sitting at that time in the Ohio 
Legislature was Colonel Donn Piatt, with the fever of the 
Southern marshes yet in his blood as a souvenir of his 
services through the war. He had gone languidly enough 
to the theatre that night, because there was nothing else 
for him to do — unless he swapped stories of the war 
in the hotel corridor with other ex-soldiers, and he was 
sick to death of that, and he was so surprised by what 
he saw that he was moved to write the article from which 
the last quotation is taken. Stopping in the same hotel, 
but quite unknown to him, was a young man, hardly out 
of boyhood, whose only lie, I honestly believe, was the 
one he told and swore to in order to raise his age to the 
proper military height that would admit him into the 



148 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

army. Bright, energetic, almost attaining perpetual mo- 
tion in his own person, ambitious John A. Cockerill 
just then served in the double capacity of a messenger in 
the House and reporter on a paper. Diphtheria, which 
was almost epidemic that winter, visited the staff of the 
paper he was on, and in consequence he was temporarily 
assigned to its dramatic work — thus he wrote another 
of the notices of my first venture in the tearful drama. 
Every day these two men were in the State-house — 
every day I walked through its grounds on my way to 
and from the theatre — each quite unconscious of the 
others. 

But old Time shakes the box and casts the dice so 
many, many times, groupings must repeat themselves 
now and again, so it came about that after years filled 
with hard work and fair dreams, another shake of the 
box cast us down upon the table of Life, grouped to- 
gether again — but each man knew and served me now 
faithfully, loyally ; each giving me a hand to pull me up 
a step higher. They hated each other bitterly, vindic- 
tively, as journalists have been known to do occasionally ; 
and as I knew the noble qualities of both, what better 
reward could I give for their goodness to me than to 
clasp their hands together and make them friends? It 
was not an easy task, it required finesse as well as cour- 
age, but 'twas the kind of task a woman loves — if she 
succeeds, and I succeeded. 

They became friends, strong, earnest friends for the 
rest of their lives. Death severed the bond, if it is sev- 
ered; I do not know, and they may not return to tell 
me — I only know that in the years that were to come, 
when each man headed a famous paper, Colonel John 
A. Cockerill, of the New York World, who wrote many 
a high word of praise for me when victory had at last 
perched on my banner, and Colonel Piatt, who with his 
brilliant wife made me known to many famous men and 
women in their hospitable Washington home, loved to 
recall that night in Columbus when, all unconsciously, 



CONGRATULATIONS 149 

we three came so near to each other, only to drift apart 
for years and come together again. 

And once I said, " like motes," and Donn Piatt swiftly 
added, " and a sunbeam," and both men lifted their 
glasses and, nodding laughingly at me, cried : " To the 
sunbeam ! " while Mrs. Piatt declared, " That's a very 
pretty compliment," but to me the unanimity of thought 
between those erstwhile enemies was the prettiest thing 
about it. 

But even so small a success as that had its attendant 
shadows, as I soon found. Though I was then boarding, 
with Hattie McKee for my room-mate, I felt I still owed 
a certain duty and respect to Mrs. Bradshaw. Therefore, 
when this wonderful thing happened to me, I thought 
I ought to go and tell her all about it. I went ; she gave 
me a polite, unsmiling good-morning and pointed to a 
chair. I felt chilled. Presently she remarked, with a 
small, forced laugh : " You have become so great a per- 
son, I scarcely expected to see you here to-day." 

I looked reproachfully at her, as I quietly answered: 
" But you see I am here ; " then added, " I did not think 
you would make fun of me, Mrs. Bradshaw, I only tried 
to do my best." 

" Oh," she replied, " one does not make fun of very 
successful people." 

I turned away to hide my filling eyes, as I remarked : 
" Perhaps I'd better go away now." 

I moved toward the door, wounded to the heart. I 
had thought she would be so pleased — you see, I was 
young yet, and sometimes very stupid — I forgot she had 
a daughter. But suddenly she called to me in the old, 
kindly voice I was so used to: " Come back, Clara," she 
cried, " come back ! It's mean to punish you for an- 
other's fault. My dear, I congratulate you; you have 
only proved what I have long believed, that you have in 
you the making of a fine actress. But when I think who 
had that same chance, and that it was deliberately thrown 
away," her lips trembled, "I — well, it's hard to -bear. 



I 



150 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Even all this to-do about you in the part does not make 
her regret what she has done." 

Poor mother ! I felt so sorry for her. I wished to go 
away then, I thought my presence was unpleasant, but 
she made me tell her all about the evening, and describe 
Miss St. Clair's dress, and what everyone said and did. 
Loyal soul ! I think that was a self-inflicted penance for 
a momentary unkindness. 

Blanche gave me her usual kind greeting, and added 
the words : " Say, if I hadn't given you the chance, you 
couldn't have been a big gun to-day. You know Mr. 
Ellsler won't dare to give you anything, but he would 
have given me a nice present if I had done the part for 
him. So after all I've lost, I think you might give me 
a new piece of chewing-gum, mine won't snap or squeak 
or stretch out or do anything, it's just in its crumbly 
old age." 

I gave the new gum; so, now, if that success seems 
not quite square, if you think I made an unfair use of 
my funds in obtaining promotion, do please remember 
that I was only an accessory after the act — not before 
it. I am the more anxious this should be impressed upon 
your mind because that penny was the only one I ever 
spent in paying for advancement professionally. 

The second night of the " Lone House " was also the 
last night of Miss St. Clair's engagement, and when I 
carried her blue-brocade gown back to her, eagerly call- 
ing attention to its spotless condition, she stood with her 
hand high against the wall and her head resting heavily 
upon her outstretched arm. It was an attitude of such 
utter collapse, there was such a wanness on her white 
face that the commonplace words ceased to bubble over 
my lips, and, startled, I turned toward her husband. 
Charles Barras, gentleman as he was by birth and breed- 
ing, and one time officer in the American navy, was never- 
theless in manner and appearance so odd that the sight 
or the sound of him provoked instant smiles, but that 
night his eyes were a tragedy, filled as they were with 
an anguish of helpless love. 



CHARLES B ARRAS 151 

For a sad moment he gazed at her silently — then he 
was counting drops from a bottle, holding smelling-salts 
to her pinched nostrils, removing her riding-boots, in- 
deed, deftly filling the place not only of nurse, but dress- 
ing-maid, and as the wanness gradually faded from her 
weary face, bravely ignoring her own feelings, she made 
a little joke or two, then gave me hearty thanks for com- 
ing to her rescue, as she called it, praised my effort at 
acting, and asked me how I liked a crying part. 

" Oh, I don't like it at all," I answered. 

" Ah," she sighed, " we never like what we do best ; 
that's why I can never be contented in elegant light com- 
edy, but must strain and fret after dramatic, tragic, and 
pathetic parts — and to think that a young, untrained 
girl should step out of obscurity and without an effort 
do what I have failed in all these years ! " 

I stood aghast. " Why — why, Miss St. Clair ! " I ex- 
claimed, " you have applause and applause every night 
of your life ! " 

" Oh," she laughed, " you foolish child, it's not the 
applause I'm thinking of, but something finer, rarer. 
You have won tears, my dear, a thing I have never done 
in all my life, and never shall, no, never, I see that now ! " 

" I wish I had not ! " I answered, remorsefully and 
quite honestly, because I was quite young and unselfish 
yet, and I loved her, and she understood and leaned over 
and kissed my cheek, and told me not to bury my talent, 
but to make good use of it by and by when I was older 
and free to choose a line of business. " Though," she 
added, " even here I'll wager it's few comedy parts that 
will come your way after to-night, young lady." And 
then I left her. 

That same night I heard that a dread disease already 
abode with her, and slept and waked and went and came 
with her, and would not be shaken off, but clung ever 
closer and closer ; and, oh ! poor Charles Barras ! money 
might have saved her then — money right then might have 
saved this woman of his love, and God only knows how 



152 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

desperately he struggled, but the money came not. Then, 
worse still, Sallie was herself the bread-winner, and though 
Mr. Barras worked hard, doing writing and translating, 
acting as agent, as nurse, as maid, playing, too, in a two- 
act comedy, " The Hypochondriac," he still felt the sting 
of living on his wife's earnings, and she had, too, a 
mother and an elder sister to support; therefore she 
worked on and disease worked with her. 

Charles Barras said, with bitter sarcasm in his voice : 
" I-I-I always see m-my wife Sallie with a helpless 
woman over each shoulder, a-a-and myself on her back, 
like the ' old man of the sea,' a-a-a pretty heavy burden 
that for a sick woman to carry, my girl ! a-a-and a mighty 
pleasant picture for a man to have of his wife ! A-a-and 
money — great God, money, right now, might save her 

— might save her ! " He turned suddenly from me and 
walked on to the pitch-dark stage. 

Poor Mr. Barras, I could laugh no more at his heel- 
less boots, his funny half-stammer, and his ancient wig, 
not even when I recall the memory of that blazing Sun- 
day in a Cincinnati Episcopal church, when, the stately 
liturgy over, the Reverend Doctor ascended the pulpit 
and, regardless of the suffering of his sweltering hearers, 
droned on endlessly, and Mr. Barras leaned forward, and 
drawing a large palm fan from the next pew's rack, 
calmly lifted his wig off with one hand while with the 
other he alternately fanned his ivory bald head and the 
steaming interior of his wig. The action had an electrical 
effect. In a moment even the sleepers were alert, awake, 
a fact which so startled the preacher that he lost his place 

— hemmed — h-h-med, and ran down, found the place 
again, started, saw Barras fanning his wig, though pay- 
ing still most decorous attention to the pulpit, and be- 
fore they knew it they were all scrambling to their feet 
at " Might, Majesty, and Power ! " — were scrabbling for 
their pockets at " Let your light so shine," for Mr. Barras 
had shortened the service with a vengeance; hence the 
forgiving glances cast upon him as he carefully replaced 
his wig and sauntered forth. 



"BLACK CROOKS'' AUTHOR 153 

Several years after that night in Columbus, when I had 
reached New York and was rehearsing for my first ap- 
pearance there, I one morning heard hasty, shuffling steps 
following me, and before I could enter the stage-door, 
a familiar " Er-er-er Clara, Clara ! " stopped me, and I 
turned to face the wealthy author of the " Black Crook " 
— Mr. Charles Barras. There he stood in apparently 
the same heelless cloth gaiters, the same empty-looking 
black alpaca suit, the clumsy turned-over collar that was 
an integral part of the shirt and not separate from it, the 
big black satin handkerchief-tie that he had worn years 
ago, but the face, how bloodless, shrunken, lined, and 
sorrowful it looked beneath the adamantine youthfulness 
of that chestnut wig! 

" D-d-don't you know me ? " he asked. 

" Yes, of course I do," I answered as I took his hand. 

" W-w-well then don't run away — er-er it's against 
law, r-religion, or decency to turn your back on a rich 
man. D-d-dodge the poor, Clara, my girl! but never 
turn your back on a man with money ! " 

I was pained; probably I looked so. He went on: 
" I-I-I'm rich now, Clara. I've got a fine marine villa, 
and in it are an old, old dog and a dying old woman. 
They both belonged to my Sallie, and so I'll keep hold of 
'em as long as I can, for her sake. A-a-after they go ! " 
he turned his head away, he looked up at the beautiful 
blue indifference of the sky, his face seemed to tremble all 
over, his eyes came back, and he muttered : " W-w-we'll 
see — w-w-we'll see what will happen then. But, Clara, 
you remember that time when money could have saved 
her? The money I receive in one week now, if I could 
have had it then, she, Sallie, might be over there on 
Broadway now buying the frills and furbelows she loved 
and needed, too, and couldn't have. The little boots and 
slippers — you remember Sallie's instep? Had to have 
her shoes to order always," he stopped, he pressed his 
lips tight together for a moment, then suddenly he burst 
out : " By God, when a man struggles hard all his life, 



154 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

it's a damn rough reward to give him a handsome coffin 
for his wife ! " 

Oh, poor rich man ! how my heart ached for him. A 
tear slipped down my cheek ; he saw it. " D-d-don't ! " 
he said, " d-don't, my girl, she can't come back, and it 
hurts her to have anyone grieve. I want you to come 
and see me, when you get settled here, a-a-and I wish 
you a great big success. My Sallie liked you, she spoke 
often of you. I-I-F1I let you know how to get out there, 
and I-I-I'll show you her dog — old Belle, and you can 
stroke her, and er-er sit in Sallie's chair a little while 
perhaps — and er — don't, my girl, don't cry, she can't 
come back, you know," and shaking my hands he left 
me, thinking I was crying for Sallie, who was safe at 
rest and had no need of tears, while instead they were 
for himself — so old, so sad, so lonely, such a poor rich 
man! Did he know then how near Death was to him? 
Some who knew him well believe unto this day that the 
fatal fall from the cars was no fall, but a leap — only 
God knows. 

I never paid the promised visit — could find no oppor- 
tunity — and I never saw him again, that eccentric man, 
devoted husband, and honest gentleman, Charles Barras. 



CHAPTER TWENTIETH 

I Have to Pass through Bitter Humiliation to Win High 
Encomiums from Herr Bandmann ; while Edwin Booth's 
Kindness Fills the Theatre with Pink Clouds, and I 
Float Thereon. 

OCCASIONALLY one person united two ' lines 
of business," as in the case of Mrs. Bradshaw, 
who played " old women " and " heavy business " 
both, and when anything happened to disqualify such a 
person for work the inconvenience was of course very 
great. Mrs. Bradshaw, as I have said before, was very 
stout, but her frame was delicate in the extreme, and her 
slender ankles were unable to bear her great weight, and 
one of them broke. Of course that meant a long lying 
up in dry-dock for her, and any amount of worry for ever 
so many other people. Right in the middle of her im- 
prisonment came the engagement of the German actor, 
Herr Daniel Bandmann. He was to open with " Ham- 
let/' and, gracious Heaven! I was cast for the Queen- 
mother. It took a good deal in the way of being asked 
to do strange parts to startle me, but the Queen-mother 
did it. I was just nicely past sixteen, but even I dared 
not yet lay claim to seventeen, and I was to go on the 
stage for the serious Shakespearian mother of a star. 
"Oh, I couldn't!" 

" Can't be helped — no one else," growled Mr. Ellsler. 
" Just study your lines, right away, and do the best you 
can." 

I had been brought up to obey, and I obeyed. We 
had heard much of Mr. Bandmann, of his originality, his 
impetuosity, and I had been very anxious to see him. 

155 



156 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

After that cast, however, I would gladly have deferred 
the pleasure. The dreaded morning came. Mr. Band- 
mann, a very big man, to my frightened eyes looked 
gigantic. He was dark-skinned, he had crinkly, flowing 
hair, his eyes were of the curious red-brown color of a ripe 
chestnut. He was large of voice, and large of gesture. 
There was a greeting, a few introductions, and then re- 
hearsal was on, and soon, oh! so soon, there came the 
call for the Queen. I came forward. He glanced down 
at me, half smiled, waved his arm, and said : " Not you, 
not the Player-Queen, but Gertrude." 

I faintly answered : " I'm sorry, sir, but I have to play 
Gertrude." 

" Oh, no you won't ! " he cried, " not with me ! " He 
was furious, he stamped his feet, he turned to the man- 
ager: "What's all this infernal nonsense? I want a 
woman for this part! What kind of witches' broth are 
you serving me, with an old woman for my Ophelia, and 
an apple-cheeked girl for my mother! She can't speak 
these lines ! she, dumpling face ! " 

Mr. Ellsler said, quietly : " There is sickness in my 
company. The heavy woman cannot act ; this young girl 
will not look the part, of course, but you need have no 
fear about the lines, she never loses a word." 

" Curse the words! It is, that that little girl shall not 
read with the sense one line, no, not one line of the 
Shakespeare ! " his English was fast going in his rage. 

Mr. Ellsler answered : " She will read the part as well 
as you ever heard it in your life, Mr. Bandmann." And 
Mr. Bandmann gave a jeering laugh, and snapped his 
fingers loudly. 

It was most insulting, and I felt overwhelmed with 
humiliation. Mr. Ellsler said, angrily : " Very well, as 
I have no one else to offer you, we will close the theatre 
for the night ! " 

But Mr. Bandmann did not want to close — not he. 
So, after swearing in German for a time, he resumed 
rehearsal; and when my time came to speak I could 



ACTING WITH BANDMANN 157 

scarcely lift my drooping head or conquer the lump in 
my throat, but, somehow, I got out the entreating words : 

11 Good Hamlet, cast thy Knighted color off, 
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark." 

He lifted his head suddenly — I went on : 

" Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids 
Seek for thy noble father in the dust." 

He exclaimed, surprisedly : " So ! so ! " as I continued 
my speech. Now in this country, " So — so ! " is a term 
applied to restless cows at milking-time, and the devil 
of ridicule, never long at rest in my mind, suddenly 
wakened, so that when I had to say : 

11 Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet: 
I pray thee, stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg. " 

and Mr. Bandmann smilingly cried : " So ! so ! " and I 
swiftly added the word " Bossy," and every soul on the 
stage broke into laughter. He saw he was laughed at, 
and it took a whole week's time and an elaborate explana- 
tion, to enable him to grasp the jest — but when he got 
a good hold of it, he so! so! bossied and stamped and 
laughed at a great rate. 

During the rehearsal — which was difficult in the ex- 
treme, as his business (i.e., actions or poses accompany- 
ing certain words) was very different from that we were 
used to — he never found one single fault with my read- 
ing, and made just one suggestion, which I was most 
careful to follow — for one taste of his temper had been 
enough. 

Then came the night — a big house, too, I remember. 
I wore long and loose garments to make me look more 
matronly ; but, alas ! the drapery Queen Gertrude wears, 
passed under her jaws from ear to ear, was particularly 
becoming to me, and brought me uncommonly near to 



158 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

prettiness. Mr. Ellsler groaned, but said nothing, while 
Mr. Bandmann sneered out an " Ach Himmel ! " shrugged 
his shoulders, and made me feel real nice and happy. 
And when one considers that without me the theatre must 
have closed or changed its bill, even while one pities him 
for the infliction, one feels he was unnecessarily unkind. 

Well, all went quietly until the closet scene — between 
Hamlet, the Queen, and the Ghost. It is a great scene, 
and he had some very effective business. I forgot Band- 
mann in Hamlet. I tried hard to show shame, pride, 
and terror. The applause was rapturous. The curtain 
fell, and — why, what, in the name of heaven, was hap- 
pening to me ? 

I was caught by the arms and lifted high in air ; when 
I came down I was crushed to Hamlet's bosom, with a 
crackling sound of breaking Roman-pearl beads, and in 
a whirlwind of " Himmels ! " " Gotts ! " and things, I was 
kissed with frenzied wet kisses on either cheek — on my 
brow — my eyes. Then disjointed English came forth: 
" Oh, you so great, you kleine apple-cheeked girl ! you 
maker of the fraud — you so great nobody ! ach ! you 
are fire — you have pride — you are a Gertrude who 
have shame ! " More kisses, then suddenly he realized 
the audience was still applauding — loudly and heartily. 
He grasped my hand, he dragged me before the curtain, 
he bowed, he waved his hands, he threw one arm about 
my shoulders. 

" Good Lord ! " I thought, " he isn't going to do it 
all over again — out here, is he ? " and I began backing 
out of sight as quickly as possible. 

It was a very comforting plaster to apply to my 
wounds — such a success as that, but it would have 
been so much pleasanter not to have received the wound 
in the first place. 

Mr. Bandmann's best work, I think, was done in " Nar- 
cisse." His Hamlet seemed to me too melodramatic — 
if I may say so. If Hamlet had had all that tremendous 
fund of energy, all that love of action, the Ghost need 



EDWIN BOOTH JOINS US 159 

never have returned to " whet his almost blunted pur- 
pose." Nor could I like his scene with his guilty mother. 
There was not even a forced show of respect for her. 
There was no grief for her wrong-doing — rather, his 
whole tone was that of a triumphant detective. And his 
speeches, " Such an act ! " and " Look upon this picture ! " 
were given with such unction — such a sneeringly, per- 
fect comprehension of her lust, as to become themselves 
lustful. 

His Shylock was much admired, I believe, but Nar- 
cisse was a most artistic piece of work. His appearance 
was superb ; his philosophical flippancy anent his pov- 
erty, his biting contempt of the powerful Pompadour; 
his passion and madness on discovering his lost wife in 
the person of the dying favorite, and his own death, were 
really great. 

And just one little month after the departure of the 
impetuous German, who should be announced but Mr. 
Edwin Booth. I felt my eyes growing wider as I read 
in the cast, " Queen Gertrude — Miss Morris." Uncle 
Dick, behind me, said : " Would you like me to d — n 
poor Brad's bones for you, Clara? It's hard lines on 
you, and that's a fact ! " 

" Oh ! " I thought, " why won't her blessed old bones 
mend themselves ! she is not lazy, but they are ! oh, dear ! 
oh, dear ! " and miserable tears slid down my cheeks all 
the way home, and moistened saltily my supper of crack- 
ers after I got there. 

I had succeeded before, oh, yes ; but I could not help 
recalling just how hot the ploughshares were over which 
I had walked to reach that success. Then, too, all girls 
have their gods — some have many of them. Some girls 
change them often. My gods were few. Sometimes I 
cast one down, but I never changed them, and on the 
highest, whitest pedestal of all, grave and gentle, stood 
the god of my professional idolatry — Edwin Booth. I 
wiped off cracker-crumbs with one hand and tears with 
the other. 



160 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

It was so humiliating to be forced upon anyone, as I 
should be forced upon Mr. Booth, since there was still 
no one but my " apple-cheeked " self to go on for the 
Queen; and though I dreaded indignant complaint or 
disparaging remarks from him, I was honestly more un- 
happy over the annoyance this blemish on the cast would 
cause him. Well, it could not be helped, I should have 
to bear a second cruel mortification, that was all. I put 
my four remaining crackers back in their box, brushed 
up the crumbs, wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little 
old-time " Now I lay me," and went to sleep ; only to 
dream of Mr. Booth holding out a hideous mask, and 
pressing me to have the decency to put it on before going 
on the stage for Gertrude. 

When the dreaded Monday came, lo ! a blizzard came 
with it. The trains were all late, or stalled entirely. We 
rehearsed, but there was no Mr. Booth present. He was 
held in a drift somewhere on the line, and at night, there- 
fore, we all went early to the theatre, so that if he came 
we would have time to go over the important scenes — 
or if he did not come that we might prepare for another 
play. 

He came. Oh, how my heart sank! This would be 
worse for him even than it had been for Mr. Bandmann, 
for the latter knew of his disappointing Queen in the 
morning, and had time to get over the shock, but poor 
Mr. Booth was to receive his blow only a few minutes 
before going on the stage. At last it came — the call. 

" Mr. Booth would like to see you for a few moments 
in his room." 

I went, I was cold all over. He was so tired, he would 
be so angry. I tapped. I went in. He was dressed for 
Hamlet, but he was adding a touch to his brows, and 
snipping a little at his nails — hurriedly. He looked up, 
said " Good-evening ! " rather absently, then stopped, 
looked again, smiled, and waving his hand slightly, said, 
just in Bandmann's very words : " No, not you — not 
the Player-Queen — but Gertrude." 



GERTRUDE TO BOOTH'S HAMLET 161 

Tears rushed to my eyes, my whole heart was in my 
voice as I gasped: " I'm so sorry, sir, but / have to do 
Queen Gertrude. You see," I rushed on, " our heavy 
woman has a broken leg and can't act." 

A whimsical look, half smile, half frown, came over 
his face. " That's bad for the heavy woman," he re- 
marked. 

" Yes," I acquiesced, " but, if you please, I had to do 
this part with Mr. Bandmann too, and — and — I'll only 
worry you with my looks, sir, not about the words or 
business." 

He rested his dark, unspeakably melancholy eyes on 
my face, his brows raised and then knit themselves in 
such troubled wise as made me long to put an arm about 
his shoulders and assure him I wouldn't be so awfully bad. 

Then he sighed and said : " Well, it was the closet- 
scene I wanted to speak to you about. When the Ghost ap- 
pears, you are to be — " He stopped, a faint smile touched 
his lips, even reached his eyes ; he laid down his scissors, 
and remarked, " There's no denying it, my girl, I look 
a great deal more like your father than you look like 
my mother — but," he went on with his directions, and, 
considerate gentleman that he was, spoke no single un- 
kind word to me, though my playing of that part must 
have been a great annoyance to him, when added to hun- 
ger and fatigue. 

When the closet-scene was over, the curtain down, I 
caught up my petticoats and made a rapid flight room- 
ward. The applause was filling the theatre. Mr. Booth, 
turning, called after me : " You — er — Gertrude — er 
— Queen! Oh, somebody call that child back here," and 
someone roared : " Clara — Mr. Booth is calling you ! " 

I turned, but stood still. He beckoned, then came to 
me, took my hand, and saying : " My dear, we must not 
keep them waiting too long ! " led me before the curtain 
with him. I very slightly bent my head to the audience, 
whom I felt were applauding Hamlet only, but turned 
and bowed myself to the ground to him whose courtesy 
had brought me there. 



162 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

When we came off he smiled amusedly, tapped me on 
the shoulder, and said : " My Gertrude, you are very 
young, but you know how to pay a pretty compliment — 
thank you, child ! " 

So, whenever you see pictures of nymphs or goddesses 
floating on pink clouds, and looking idiotically happy, 
you can say to yourself: " That's just how Clara Morris 
felt when Edwin Booth said she had paid him a com- 
pliment." 

Yes, I floated, and I'll take a solemn oath, if necessary, 
that the whole theatre was filled with pink clouds the rest 
of that night — for girls are made that way, and they 
can't help it. 

In after years I knew him better, and I treasure still 
the little note he sent me in answer to my congratulation 
on his escape from the bullet fired at him from the gal- 
lery of the theatre in Chicago. A note that expressed 
as much gentle surprise at my " kind thought for him," 
as though I only, and not the whole country, was rejoic- 
ing at his safety. 

He had a wonderful power to win love from other men 
— yes,. I use the word advisedly. It was not mere good- 
fellowship or even affection, but there was something so 
fine and true, so strong and sweet in his nature, that it 
won the love of those who knew him best. 

It would seem like presumption for me to try to add 
one little leaf to the tight-woven laurel crown he wore. 
Everyone knows the agony of his " Fool's Revenge," the 
damnable malice of his Iago, the beauty and fire of An- 
tony, and the pure perfection of his Hamlet — but how 
many knew the slow, cruel martyrdom of his private 
life! which he bore with such mute patience that in my 
heart there is an altar raised to the memory of that Saint 
Edwin of many sorrows, who was known and envied by 
the world at large — as the great actor, Edwin Booth. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST 

I Digress, but I Return to the Columbus Engagement of 
Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean — Their Peculiarities and 
Their Work. 

BEFORE one has " arrived/' it is astonishing how 
precious the simplest word of encouragement or 
of praise becomes, if given by one who has " ar- 
rived." Not long ago a lady came up to me and said : " I 

am Mrs. D , which is, of course, Greek to you ; but 

I want to thank you now for your great goodness to 
me years ago. I was in the ballet in a Chicago theatre. 
You were playing ' Camille.' One day the actress who 
played Olympe was sick, and as I was, you said, the tall- 
est and the handsomest of the girls, you gave the part 
to me. I was wild with delight until the nervousness 
got hold of me. I was not strong — my stomach failed 
me; the girls thought that very funny, and guyed me 
unmercifully. I was surely breaking down. You came 
along, ready to go on, and heard them. I could scarcely 
stand. You said : ' What's the matter — are you ner- 
vous ? ' I tried to speak, but only nodded. You took 
my hand and, stroking it, gently said, ' Isn't it awful ? ' 
then, glancing at my tormentors, added, ' but it's noth- 
ing to be ashamed of, and just as soon as you face 
the footlights all your courage will come back to you, 
and, my dear, comfort yourself with the knowledge that 
the perfectly collected, self-satisfied beginner rarely at- 
tains a very high position on the stage.' Oh, if you only 
knew how my heart jumped at your words. My fingers 
grew warmer, my nerves steadier, and I really did suc- 
ceed in getting the lines over my lips some way. But 
you saved me, you made an actress of me. Ah, don't 

163 



164 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

laugh! don't shake your head, please! Had I failed 
that night, don't you see, I should never have had a 
chance given me again ; while, having got through safely, 
it was not long before I was pointed out as the girl who 
had played Olympe with Miss Morris, and on the strength 
of that I was trusted with another part, and so crept on 
gradually; and now I want to thank you for the sym- 
pathy and kindness you showed me so long ago " — and 
though her warm gratitude touched me deeply, I had 
then — have now — no recollection whatever of the in- 
cident she referred to, nor of ever having seen before 
her very handsome face. And so, no doubt, many of 
whom I write, who from their abundance cast me a word 
of praise or of advice now and again, will have no mem- 
ory of the largesse which I have cherished all these years. 

Among my most treasured memories I find the gentle 
words and astonishing prophecy of Mr. Charles Kean. 
That was the last visit to this country of Mr. and Mrs. 
Kean, and his memory was failing him grievously. He 
had with him two English actors, each of whom knew 
every line of all his parts, and their duty was, when on 
the stage or off, so long as Mr. Kean was before the 
house, to keep their eyes on him, and at the first sign of 
hesitancy on his part one of them gave him the needed 
word. Once or twice, when he seemed quite bewildered, 
Mr. Cathcart, turning his back to the audience, spoke 
Mr. Kean's entire speech, imitating his nasal tones to the 
life. 

But it was off the stage that the ancient couple were 
most delightful. Ellen and Charles were like a pair of 
old, old love-birds — a little dull of eye, nor quite per- 
fect in the preening of their somewhat rumpled plumage, 
but billing and cooing with all the persistency and satis- 
faction of their first caging. Their appearance upon the 
street provoked amusement — sometimes even excitement. 
I often saw drivers of drays and wagons pull up their 
horses and stop in the crowded street to stare at them 
as they made their way toward the theatre. Mrs. Kean 



MR. AND MRS. CHARLES KEAN 165 

lived inside of the most astounding hoop woman ever 
carried. Its size, its weight, its tilting power were awful. 
Entrances had to be cleared of all chairs or tables to ac- 
commodate Mrs. Kean's hoop. People scrambled or slid 
sideways about her on the stage, swearing mentally all 
the time, while a sudden gasp from the front row or a 
groan from Mr. Cathcart announced a tilt and a revela- 
tion of heelless slippers and dead-white stockings, and 
in spite of his dignity Charles was not above a joke on 
Ellen's hoop, for one rainy day, as she strove to enter a 
carriage door she stuck fast, and the hoop — mercy! It 
was well Mr. Kean was there to hold it down; but as a 
troubled voice from within said : " I'm caught some- 
how — don't you see, Charles ? " With a twinkling eye 
Charles replied : " Yes, Ellen, my dear, I do see — and 
— and I'm trying to keep everyone else from seeing, 
too ! " a speech verging so closely upon impropriety that, 
with antique coquetry, Mrs. Kean punished him by tweak- 
ing his ear when he squeezed in beside her. 

The Kean bonnet was the wonder of the town. It was 
a large coal-scuttle of white leghorn and at the back there 
was a sort of flounce of ribbon which she called her " bon- 
net-cape " ; draped over it she wore a great, bright-green 
barege veil. But she was not half so funny as was her 
husband on the street. His short little person buttoned 
up tightly in a regular bottle-green " Mantellini " sort of 
overcoat, loaded with frogs of heavy cord, and lined, 
cuffed, and collared with fur of such remarkable color, 
quality, and marking as would have puzzled the most 
experienced student of natural history to name; while 
vicious little street boys at sight of it always put search- 
ing questions as to the cost of cat-skins in London. 

As they came down the street together, Mrs. Kean, 
majestically towering above her lord and master, looked 
like an old-time frigate with every inch of canvas spread, 
while at her side Charles puffed and fretted like a small 
tug. The street boys were a continual torment to him, 
but Mrs. Kean appeared serenely unconscious of their 



166 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

existence, even when her husband made short rushes at 
them with his gold-headed cane, and crying : " Go a-way 

— you irreverent little brutes — go a-way ! " and then 
puffed laboriously back to her again as she sailed 
calmly on. 

One day a citizen caught one of the small savages, 
and after boxing his ears soundly, pitched him into the 
alley-way, when the seemingly enraged little Englishman 
said, deprecatingly : "I — I wouldn't hurt the little 
beast — he — he hasn't anyone to teach him any better, 
you know — poor little beggar ! " and then he dropped 
behind for a moment to pitch a handful of coppers into 
the alley before hurrying up to his wife's side to boast of 
the jolly good drubbing the little monster had received 

— from which I gathered the idea that in a rage Charles 
would be as fierce as seething new milk. 

Everyone who knew anything at all of this actor knew 
of his passionate love and reverence for his great father. 
He used always to carry his miniature in Hamlet, using 
it in the " Look here, upon this picture, then on this " 
scene ; but I knew nothing of all that when he first ar- 
rived to play engagements both in Cleveland and Colum- 
bus, but being very eager to see all I could of him, I 
came very early to the theatre, and as I walked up and 
down behind the scenes I caught two or three times a 
glint of something on the floor, which might have been 
a bit of tinsel; but finally I went over to it, touched it 
with my foot, and then picked up an oval gold case, with 
handsome frame enclosing a picture; a bit of broken 
ribbon still hung from the ring on top of the frame. I 
ran with it to the prompter, who knew nothing of it, but 
said there would soon be a hue and cry for it from some- 
one, as it was of value. " Perhaps you'd better take it 
to Mr. Kean — it might be his." I hesitated, but the 
prompter said he was busy and I was not, so I started 
toward the dressing-room the Keans shared together, 
when suddenly the door was flung open and Mr. Kean 
came out in evident excitement. He bumped against me 



MR. KEAN'S LOCKET 167 

as he was crying : " I say there — you — have you seen 

— oh, I — er beg your pardon ! " 

I also apologized, and added : " If you please, sir, does 
this belong to you ? I found it behind the scenes." 

He caught it from my hand, bent to look at it in the 
dim light, then, pressing it to his lips, exclaimed fer- 
vently : " Thank the good God ! " He held up a length 
of broken black ribbon, saying : " Hey, but you have 
played me a nice trick ! " I understood at once that he 
used the locket in " Hamlet," and I ventured : " If you 
can't wear gold and your ribbon cuts, could you not have a 
silver chain oxidized for your ' property ' picture, sir ? " 
He chucked me under the chin, exclaiming: "A good 
idea that — I — I'll tell Ellen of that ; but, my dear, this 
is no ' property ' locket — this is one of my greatest 
earthly treasures — it's the picture of " 

He stopped — he looked at me for quite a moment, 
then he said : " You come here to the light." I followed 
him obediently. " Now can you tell me who that is a 
miniature of? " and he placed the oval case in my hands. 
I gave a glance at the curled hair, the beautiful profile, 
the broad turned-down collar, and smilingly exclaimed: 
" It's Lord Byron ! " 

Good gracious, what was the matter with the little old 
gentleman ! " Ha ! ha ! " he cried. " Ha ! ha ! listen to 
the girl ! " He fairly pranced about ; he got clear out 
on the dark stage and, holding out his hands to the empti- 
ness, cried again : " Listen to the girl — Lord Byron, 
says she — at one glance ! " 

" Well," I replied resentfully, " it does look like 
Byron ! " And he " Ha ! ha'd ! " some more, and wiped 
his eyes and said, " I must tell Ellen this. Come here, 
my dear, come here ! " He took my hand and led me 
to the dressing-room, crying : " It's Charles, my dear — 
it's Charles — and oh, my dear, my dear, I — I have it 

— see now ! " he held up the locket. 

" Oh, how glad I am ! And now, Charles, perhaps 
you'll give up that miserable ribbon," and she kissed his 
cheek in congratulation. 



168 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

But on the old gentleman went : " And, Ellen, my 
dear, look at this girl here — just look at her. She found 
him for me, and I said, who is he — and she up and said — 
Ellen, are you listening? — said she, ' It's Lord Byron ! ' " 

" Did she now ? " exclaimed Mrs. Kean, with pleased 
eyes. 

But I was getting mad, and I snapped a bit, I'm afraid, 
when I said : " Well, I don't know who it is, but it does 
look like Byron — I'll leave it to anyone in the company 
if it doesn't ! " 

" Listen to her, Ellen ! Hang me if she's not getting 
hot about it, too ! " Then he came over to me, and in the 
gravest, gentlest tone said, " It is like Byron, my girl, 
but it is not him — you found the picture of my beloved 
and great father, Edmund Kean," and he kissed me gently 
on the forehead, and said, " Thank you — thank you ! " 
and as Mrs. Kean came over and put her arm about me 
and repeated the kiss and thanks, Charles snuffled most 
distinctly from the corner where he was folding his 
precious miniature within a silk handkerchief. 

They were both at their very best in the tragedy of 
" Henry VIII." Mr. Kean's Wolsey was an impressive 
piece of work, and to the eye he was as true a Cardinal 
as ever shared in an Ecumenical Council in Catholic 
Rome, or hastened to private audience at the Vatican 
with the Pope himself; and his superb robes, his priestly 
splendor had nothing about them that was imitation. 
Everything was real — the silks, the jewelled cross and 
ring, and as to the lace, I gasped for breath with sheer 
astonishment. Never had I seen, even in a picture, any- 
thing to suggest the exquisite beauty of that ancient web. 
Full thirty inches deep, the yellowing wonder fell over 
the glowing cardinal-red beneath it. I cannot remember 
how many thousands of dollars they had gladly given 
for it to the sisters of the tottering old convent in the 
hills, where it had been created long ago ; and though it 
seemed so fragily frail and useless a thing, yet had it 
proved strong enough to prop up the leaning walls of 



MRS. KEAN'S CATHERINE 169 

its old home, and spread a sound roof above the blessed 
altar there — so strong sometimes is beauty's weakness. 
And Mrs. Kean, what a Catherine she was! Surely 
nothing could have been taken from the part, nothing 
added to it, without marring its perfection. In the earlier 
acts one seemed to catch a glimpse of that Ellen Tree 
who had been a beauty as well as a popular actress when 
Charles Kean had come a-wooing. Her clear, strong 
features, her stately bearing were beautifully suited to 
the part of Queen Catherine. Her performance of the 
court scene was a liberal education for any young actress. 
Her regal dignity, her pride, her passion of hatred for 
Wolsey held in strong leash, yet now and again spring- 
ing up fiercely. Her address to the King was a clelight 
to the ear, even while it moved one to the heart, and 
through the deep humility of her speech one saw, as 
through a veil, the stupendous pride of the Spanish prin- 
cess, who knew herself the daughter of a king, if she 
were not the wife to one. With most pathetic dignity 
she gave her speech beginning: 

" Sir, I desire you do me right and justice ; " 

maintaining perfect self-control, until she came to the 
words : 



Sir, call to mind 



That I have been your wife in this obedience 
Upward of twenty years and, " 

Her voice faltered, the words trembled on her lips 

" have been blest 



With many children by you. " 

In that painful pause one remembered with a pang that 
all those babes were dead in infancy, save only the Prin- 
cess Mary. Then, controlling her emotion and lifting her 
head high, she went on to the challenge — if aught could 



170 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

be reported against her honor. It was a great act, her 
passionate cry to Wolsey: 

Lord cardinal, 



To you I speak. 

thrilled the audience, while to his: 

" Be patient yet," 

her sarcastic: 

" I will, when you are humble ! " 

cut like a knife, and brought quick applause. But best, 
greatest, queenliest of all was her exit, when refusing to 
obey the King's command: 

" Call her again." 



for years one might remember those ringing words : 

" I will not tarry : no, nor ever more, 
Upon this business, my appearance make 
In any of their courts." 

It was a noble performance. Mr. Kean's mannerisms 
were less noticeable in Wolsey than in other parts, and 
the scenes between the Queen and Cardinal were a joy 
to lovers of Shakespeare. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND 

I Hear Mrs. Kean's Story of Wolsey's Robe — I Laugh at 
an Extravagantly Kind Prophecy. 

FROM the time I found the miniature and by acci- 
dent fed Mr. Kean's innocent vanity in his father's 
likeness to Byron, he made much of me. Evening 
after evening, in Columbus, he would have me come to 
their dressing-room, for after the habit of the old-time 
actor, they came very early, dressed without flurry, and 
were ready before the overture was on. There they 
would tell me stories, and when Charles had a teasing fit 
on him, he would relate with great gusto the awful dis- 
aster that once overtook Ellen in a theatre in Scotland, 
" when she played a Swiss boy, my girl — and — and 
her breeches " 

" Now, Charles ! " remonstrated Mrs. Kean. 

" Knee breeches, you know, my dear " 

" Charles ! " pleadingly. 

" Were of black velvet — yes, black velvet, I remem- 
ber because, when they broke from " 

" C-h-a-r-1-e-s ! " and then the stately Mrs. Kean would 
turn her head away and give a small sob — when Charles 
would wink a knowing wink and trot over and pat the 
broad shoulder and kiss the rouged cheek, saying: 
" Why, why, Ellen, my dear, what a great baby ! now, 
now, but you know those black breeches did break up 
before you got across the bridge." 

Then Mrs. Kean turned and drove him into his own 
corner or out of the door, after which she would exclaim : 
" It's just one of his larks, my dear. I did have an acci- 
dent, the seam of one leg of my breeches broke and 
showed the white lining a bit; but if you'll believe me, 

171 



172 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I've known that man to declare that — that — they fell 
off, my dear; but generally that's on Christmas or his 
birthday, when only friends are by." 

Mr. Kean had been the first man to wear an absolutely 
correct cardinal's robe on the stage, and very proud he 
was of that fact, and never failed in giving his Ellen 
all the credit of it. Until this time actors had worn a 
scarlet " something," that seemed a cross between a 
king's mantle or a woman's wrapper. Mr. Kean had 
been quite carried away with enthusiasm over his com- 
ing production of " Henry VIII.," and his wife, seeing 
his disappointment and dissatisfaction over the costumer's 
best efforts in the direction of a cardinal's robe, deter- 
mined, some way or somehow, to obtain for him an 
exact copy of the genuine article. 

One night, while " Louis XL" was going on, Mrs. 
Kean herself told me how she had at last succeeded. 
They were in Rome for their holiday; they had many 
letters, some to very important personages. In her story 
Mrs. Kean gave names and dates and amounts of money 
expended, but they have passed from my memory, while 
the dramatic incident remains. 

From the first she had made known to her most pow- 
erful Roman friend her desire to see the robe of a car- 
dinal — to obtain measurements from it, and had been 
treated at first to a great showing of uplifted hands and 
eyes and many " impossibles," but later on had received 
positive promises of help. Yet days, even weeks passed, 
and always there was some excuse — nothing came of 
the fine promises. 

One day, in her anxiety and disappointment, she men- 
tioned to an English friend, who had long resided in 
Rome, her trouble over the procrastination of her Italian 
acquaintance, when the Englishwoman asked : " What 
have you paid him ? " " Paid him ? " cried Mrs. Kean. 

" Do you know you are speaking of F , whose high 

official as well as social position is such " 

" Oh," laughed the visitor, " his position has nothing 



COPYING A CARDINAL'S ROBE 173 

to do with it — his being your friend has nothing to do 
with it. The Italian palm is an itching palm — no won- 
der time is being wasted. Soothe that palm the next time 
he calls, and mention the day on which you are com- 
pelled to leave for home, and he will act quickly enough, 
though you really are asking for next to an impossibility, 
when you, a woman, ask to see and handle a cardinal's 
robe." 

" Oh, my dear ! " cried Mrs. Kean, " when that stately, 
gray-haired gentleman next came, I almost fainted at 
the thought of putting such an insult upon him as to offer 
him money. Indeed I could barely whisper, when clasp- 
ing his hand I left some broad gold pieces there, mur- 
muring, ' For the poor, sir ! ' — and if you'll believe me, 
he brightened up and instantly said : ' Keep to the house 
to-morrow, Madame, and I will notify you what you are 
to do, and the effort to get a robe to you here having 
failed, you will have to come to the general " audience " 
his Holiness will grant day after to-morrow, and, and, 
hem ! you will do well to have some loose lire in your 
pouch, and be sure, sure, you carry a smelling-bottle. I 
suppose, of course, so famous an actress as yourself can 
faint at command, if need be? Then the tailor, an usher 
or two, possibly even a guard may require a fee, for they 
will run great risk in serving you, Madame. A woman 
within those sacred passages and chambers ! ' 

" He held up his hands in horror, but nevertheless he 
was doing directly what he had been promising to do 
for weeks, and all for a few broad pieces of gold. After 
he left me I was fairly sick with feverish excitement. 
I dared not tell Charles of the arrangement; he would 
have left Rome instantly, and here was I preparing to 
bribe tailor, ushers, guard — and beyond them, to be still 
armed with loose lire. Oh, to what depth was I falling! 

" Next day I received a card of admission for the 
' audience,' and orders : ' To keep my eyes open — to 
show no surprise, but to follow silently wherever a hand 
beckoned with a single finger. To bring all things need- 



174 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

ful for my use — not forgetting the loose lire and the 
smelling-bottle/ 

" When I entered the carriage to go to the Vatican, I 
was so weak with hope and fear and fright that Charles 
was quite upset about me, and was all for going with 
me ; so I had to brace up and pretend the air was already 
doing me good. As I looked back at him, I wondered 
if he would divorce me, if in my effort to secure the 
pattern of a cardinal's gown I should create a tre- 
mendous scandal? I wore the regulation black silk, with 
black veil, demanded for the occasion, but besides the lit- 
tle pouch of silk depending from my belt with lire, salts, 
and 'kerchief, I had beneath my gown a pocket in which 
were some white Swiss muslin, pins, pencil, and tablets, 
and small scissors. 

" There were many carriages — many people. I saw 
them all as in a dream. In a magnificent room the ladies 
were formed in line, waiting to be admitted to the Holy 
Father's presence. I was forgetting to keep my eyes open 
— there was a stir. A great door was opening down its 
centre. I heard a faint, low ' Hem ! ' The line began to 
move forward — a little louder that ' Hem ! ' Suddenly 
my eyes cleared — I looked. A pair of curtains, a little 
ahead, trembled. I drew my smelling-bottle and held it 
to my nostrils, as if ill, but no one noticed me — all were 
intent upon the opening of the great door. As I came 
on a line with the curtains, a hand, dream-like, beckoned. 
I stepped sidewise between the curtains, that parted, then 
fell thick and soft behind me. Another white beckoning 
hand appeared at the far side of this chamber. Swiftly 
I crossed toward it. A whisper of ' Quick! quick! ' just 
reached me — a door opened, and I was in a passage-way, 
and for the first time saw a guide. 

" At the foot of the stairs he paused — yet the voice 
had said ' Quick ! quick ! ' I thought of the loose lire — 
yes, that was it. I gave him three, and saw him glide 
up the stairs with cat-like stealth. Here were bare walls 
and floors, and all that cold cleanliness that makes a 
woman shrink and shiver. 



CONSULTING THE MODEL 175 

" At last I was in a small, bare room, with brick-paved 
floor. A table stood in its centre, and a small and wizened 
man, red-eyed and old, glided in and laid upon the table 
— oh, joy — oh, triumph almost reached ! — a glowing- 
red cardinal's robe. As I laid my hand upon it the ferret- 
like custodian gave a sort of whispered groan, ' Oh, the 
sacrilege ! and the danger ! his whole life's occupation 
risked ! ' 

" I remembered the ' itching palm,' and as my hand went 
toward my pocket, his brown claw was extended, and the 
glint of gold so warmed his heart that smiles came about 
his toothless mouth, and seeing me, woman fashion, 
measuring by finger-lengths, he offered me a dirty old 
tape-measure — then stole to the second door ' to watch 
for me.' Oh ; yes — to watch like the cat — while with 
all the haste possible the good and most high lady would 
gain such knowledge as she could, and after all the robe 
was but an old one, etc., etc. 

" All whispered, while I with the deft fingers of a 
skilled seamstress and the comprehending eye of the 
actress, well used to strange costumes, was measuring 
here and putting down notes, swiftly pinning on a bit of 
muslin there, and cutting an exact pattern. And, lo ! the 
piece that crosses the chest, cape-like, yet without visible 
opening, came near undoing me. Tears began to blind 
me, but — but, ah well, my dear, I thought of Charles, 
and it is astonishing what love can do to sharpen the eyes 
and clear the brain. Suddenly the thing seemed quite 
plain to me. I then turned the hem, and ripping it open 
an inch or so, I took a few ravellings of the silk, where 
it was clean and bright, for a sample for the dyers to go 
by — since the silk would have to be prepared especially 
if it was to be absolutely correct. 

" I rearranged my veil, crept to the door, and agree- 
ably surprised the watchers by telling them I was through. 
The ferrety old man had the robe in his arms, and was 
gliding swiftly out of the room in the merest instant. I 
followed as softly as possible the other watcher. Once 



176 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

an unseen man cleared his throat as we passed, and I 
thought my guide would have fallen from sheer terror, 
but we reached in safety the frescoed corridor again and 
stood at the door waiting. The guide scratched gently 
with his nails on the lower panel — a pause, then the 
door began to move, and he disappeared as a ghost might 
have done. Across the room a hand appeared between 
the hangings, beckoning me; I moved swiftly toward it. 
I could hear a hum of voices, low and restrained. There 
was but one room now between me and the great cham- 
ber in which we had waited in line for ' audience.' No 
further signal came, what should I do? I was nearly 
fainting. Then another hand, a hand I knew by the 
splendid ring on its middle finger, appeared. I almost 
staggered to it. A whisper like a breath came to me, 
* smelling-salts,' in an instant the bottle was in my hand, 
I was through the curtains, my Italian friend was asking 
me, was I not wrong to remain in Rome so late? He 
hoped my faintness was quite past, but he must himself 
see me to my carriage, and so he swept me forth, under 
cover of his courteous chatter, and the next day I sent 
him money for those who had to be rewarded. 

" And for fear of Charles's rage about the infamy of 
bribing, said nothing, till he, in great anxiety about my 
feverish state, removed me from Rome. And then, my 
dear ! I threw my arms about his neck and told him he 
should have a true and veritable cardinal's robe for his 
Wolsey, and in outrageous pride I cried : ' Ego hoc 
feci! ' " At which / gravely said : " That sounds like ' I 
have done something,' anyway it's I ; but that ' fctchy ' 
word bothers me." 

And she laughed and laughed, and said : " It means 
I did this ! And I am ashamed to have used a Latin term 
to you, child. You must forgive me for it, but I must 
tell Charles that ' fetchy ' word that bothered you — I 
must indeed, because he does so love his laugh ! " 

Then came the night when by chance I played an im- 
portant part in one of their plays. My scenes were mostly 



MR. KEAN TALKS TO ME 177 

with Mr. Cathcart, and I only came in contact with Mr. 
Kean for a moment in one act. L was as usual fright- 
ened half out of my life, and as I stood in the entrance 
ready to go on, Mr. Kean smilingly caught my fingers 
as he was passing me, but their icy coldness brought him 
to a stand-still. " Why, why ! bless my soul, what's the 
matter? this — this is not nervousness, is it?" he stam- 
mered. 

I nodded my head. " Oh, good Lord ! " he cried. " I 
say, Cathcart, here's a go — this poor child can't even 
open her mouth now " 

I tried to tell him I should be all right soon, but there 
was no time. The word of entrance came, and a cue takes 
the pas even in presence of a star. I went on, and as my 
lines were delivered clearly and distinctly, I saw the re- 
lieved face of Mr. Kean peering at us, and when Mr. 
Cathcart (who enacted my soldierly lover) gave me a 
sounding kiss upon the cheek as he embraced me in fare- 
well, we plainly heard the old gentleman exclaim : " Well, 
well, really now, James, upon my word, you are coming 
on ! " and Mr. Cathcart's broad shoulders shook with 
laughter rather than grief as he rushed from me. 

When, later on, Mr. Kean took my hand to give it in 
betrothal to my lover, he found it so burning hot as to 
attract his attention. 

Next night I did not play at all, but came to look on, 
and being invited to the dressing-room, Mr. Kean sud- 
denly asked me : " Who are you, child ? " 

" No one," I promptly answered. 

He laughed a little and nudged his Ellen, then went 
on : "I mean — who are your people? " 

" I have none," I said, then quickly corrected, " except 
my mother." 

" Ah, yes, yes, that's what we want to get at — who 
is that mother? for I recognize an inherited talent here 
— a natural grace and ease, impossible for one so young 
to acquire by any amount of effort." 

I was a bit confused — I hesitated. Mrs. Kean asked : 
" Were, both of your parents actors, child ? " 



178 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Suddenly I broke into laughter. The thought of my 

mother as an actress filled me with amusement. " Oh, 

I beg your pardon," I cried, " I have no father, and my 

- mother just works at sewing or nursing or housekeeping 

or anything she can get to do that's honest." 

They looked disappointedly at each other, then Mrs. 
Kean brightened up and exclaimed : " Then it's foreign 
blood, Charles — you can see it in her use of her hands." 

They turned expectantly to me. I thought of the big, 
smiling French-Canadian father, who had been the bete 
noire of my babyhood. My head drooped. " He, my 
father, was bad," I said, " his father and mother were 
from the south of France, but he was a horrid Canadian 
— my mother, though, is a true American," I proudly 
ended. 

" That's it ! " they exclaimed together, " the French 
blood ! " and Mr. Kean nodded his head and tapped his 
brow and said : " You remember, Ellen, what I told you 
last night — I said ' temperament ' — here it is in this 
small nobody; no offence to you, my girl. Here's our 
dear niece, who can't act at all, God bless her! our 
1 blood,' but no temperament. Now listen to me, you 
bright child ! " 

He pushed my hair back from my forehead, so that I 
must have looked quite wild, and went on : "I have seen 
you watch that dear woman over there, night after night ; 
you admire her, I know." (I nodded hard.) " You think 
her a great, great way from you? " (More nods.) " A 
f lifetime almost?" (Another nod.) "Then listen to 
what an old man, but a most experienced actor, prophe- 
sies for you. Without interest in high places, without 
help from anyone, except from the Great Helper of us 
all, you, little girl, daughter of the true American mother 
and the bad French father, will, inside of five years, be 
acting my wife's parts — and acting them well." 

I could not help it, it seemed so utterly absurd, I laughed 
aloud. He smiled indulgently, and said : " It seems so 
funny — does it ? Wait a bit, my dear, when my proph- 



MR. KEAN'S PROPHECY 179 

ecy comes true you will no longer laugh, and you will 
remember us." 

He gave me his hand in farewell, so did his gracious 
wife, then with tears in my eyes I said: "I was only 
laughing at my own insignificance, sir, and I shall re- 
member your kindness always, whether I succeed or not, 
just as I shall remember your great acting." 

Simultaneously they patted me on the shoulder, and I 
left them. Then Mr. Kean put his arm about his wife 
and kissed her, I know he did, because I looked back and 
saw them thus reflected in the looking-glass. But did 
I not say they were love-birds? 

Four years from that month I stood trembling and 
happy before the audience who generously applauded my 
" sleep-walking scene " in " Macbeth," and suddenly I 
seemed to hear the kind old voice making the astonishing 
prophecy, and joyed to think of its fulfilment, with a 
whole year to the good. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD 

Mr. E. L. Davenport, his Interference, his Lecture on 
Stage Business, his Error of Memory or too Powerful 
Imagination — Why I Remain a Dramatic Old Slipper — 
Contemptuous Words Arouse in Me a Dogged Deter- 
mination to Become a Leading Woman before Leaving 
Cleveland. 

JUST what was the occult power of the ballet over 
the manager's mind no one ever explained to me. I 
found my companions very every-day, good-natured, 
kind-hearted girls — pretty to look at, pleasant to be 
with, but to Mr. Ellsler they must have been a rare and 
radiant lot, utterly unmatchable in this world, or else he 
knew they had awful powers for evil and dared not pro- 
voke their " hoodoo." Whatever the reason, the fact re- 
mained, he was afraid to advance me one little step in 
name, even to utility woman; while, in fact, I was ad- 
vanced to playing other people's parts nearly half the time, 
and the reason for this continued holding back was " fear 
of offending the other ballet-girls." Truly a novel posi- 
tion for a manager. One feels at once there must have 
been something unusually precious about such a ballet, 
and he feared to break the set. Anyway, before I got out, 
clear out, this happened : 

A number of stars had spoken to me about my folly 
in remaining in the ballet, and when I told them Mr. 
Ellsler was afraid to advance me for fear of offending 
the other girls, they answered variously, and many ad- 
vised me to break the " set " myself, saying if I left he 
would soon be after me and glad to engage me for first 
walking lady. But my crushed childhood had its effect, 

1 80 



MR. E. L. DAVENPORT 181 

I shall always lack self-assertion — I stayed on and this 
happened. 

There was no regular heavy actress that season, and 
the old woman was a tiny little rag of a creature, not 
bigger than a doll. Mr. E. L. Davenport was to open 
in Othello." Mrs. Effie Ellsler was to play the young 
Desdemona and I was to go on for Emilia. Mr. Daven- 
port was a man of most reckless speech, but he was, too, 
an old friend of the Ellslers, calling them by their first 
names and meeting them with hearty greetings and many 
jests. So, when in the middle of a story to Mrs. Ellsler at 
rehearsal, the call came for Othello, Desdemona, and 
logo, she exclaimed : " Excuse me, Ned, they are call- 
ing us," but he held her sleeve and answered, " Not you 
— it's me," and glancing hurriedly about, his eye met 
mine, and he added pleasantly, " You, my dear ; they're 
calling Desdemona." 

I stood still. Mrs. Ellsler's round, black eyes snapped, 
but this man who blundered was a star and a friend. She 
tossed her head and petulantly pushed him from her tow- 
ard the stage. He went on, and at the end of his speech : 

" This only is the witchcraft I have used ; 
Here comes the lady, let her witness it. " 

he turned to face Mrs. Ellsler entering with Iago and her 
attendants. Looking utterly bewildered, he exclaimed: 
" Why, for God's sake, Effie, ycu are not going on for 
Desdemona, are you ? " 

Perhaps his dissatisfaction may be better understood 
if I mention that a young man twenty-three years old, 
who took tickets at the dress-circle door, called Mrs. Ells- 
ler mother, and that middle-aged prosperity expressed 
itself in a startling number of inches about the waist of 
her short little body. Though her feet and hands were 
small in the extreme, they could not counteract the effect 
of that betraying stodginess of figure. Mrs. Ellsler, in 
answxr to that rude question, laughed, and said : " Well, 



182 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I believe the leading woman generally does play Des- 
demona?" 

" But," cried Mr. Davenport, " where's — w-who's 
Emilia? " 

Mr. Ellsler took him by the arm and led him a little 
to one side. Several sharp exclamations escaped the 
star's lips, and at last, aloud and ending the conference, 
he said : " Yes, yes, John, I know anyone may have to 
twist about a bit now and then in a cast, but damn me 
if I can see why you don't cast Effie for Emilia and this 
girl for Desdemona — then they would at least look 
something like the parts. As it is now, they are both 
ridiculous ! " 

It was an awful speech, and the truth that was in it 
made it cut deep. There were those on the stage who 
momentarily expected the building to fall, so great was 
their awe of Mrs. Ellsler. The odd part of the unpleasant 
affair was that everyone was sorry for Mr. Ellsler, rather 
than for his wife. 

Well, night came. I trailed about after Desdemona — 
picked up the fatal handkerchief — spoke a line here and 
there as Shakespeare wills she should, and bided my time 
as all Emilias must. Now I had noticed that many Emilias 
when they gave the alarm — cried out their " Murder ! 
Murder ! " against all the noise of the tolling bells, and 
came back upon the stage spent, and without voice or 
breath to finish their big scene with, and people thought 
them weak in consequence. A long hanging bar of steel 
is generally used for the alarm, and blows struck upon 
it send forth a vibrating clangor that completely fills a 
theatre. I made an agreement with the prompter that he 
was not to strike the bar until I held up my hand to him. 
Then he was to strike one blow each time I raised my 
hand, and when I threw up both hands he was to raise 
Cain, until I was on the stage again. So with throat 
trained by much shouting, when in the last act I cried: 

" I care not for thy sword ; I'll make thee known, 
Though I lost twenty lives." 



A SUCCESSFUL TRICK 183 

I turned, and crying : 

"Help! help, ho! help!" 

ran off shouting, 

" The Moor has killed my mistress ! " 

then, taking breath, gave the long-sustained, ever-rising, 
blood-curdling cry: 

" Murder ! Murder ! Murder ! " 

One hand up, and one long clanging peal of a bell. 
" Murder ! Murder ! Murder ! " 

One hand up and bell. 

" Murder ! Murder ! Murder ! " 

Both hands up, and pandemonium broken loose — and, 
oh, joy! the audience applauding furiously. 

" One — two — three — four/' I counted with closed 
lips, then with a fresh breath I burst upon the stage, fol- 
lowed by armed men, and with one last long full-throated 
cry of " Murder ! the Moor has killed my mistress ! " 
stood waiting for the applause to let me go on. A trick? 
yes, a small trick — a mere pretence to more breath than 
I really had, but it aroused the audience, it touched their 
imagination. They saw the horror-stricken woman rac- 
ing through the night — waking the empty streets to life 
by that ever-thrilling cry of " Murder ! " A trick if you 
like, but on the stage " success " justifies the means, and 
that night, under cover of the applause of the house, 
there came to me a soft clapping of hands and in muffled 
tones the words : " Bravo — bravo ! " from Othello. 

When the curtain had fallen and Mr. Davenport had 



184 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

been before it, he came to me and holding out his hands, 
said : " You splendid-lunged creature — I want to apolo- 
gize to you for the thoughts I harbored against you this 
morning.' , I smiled and glanced uneasily at the clock — 
he went on : 

" I have always fancied my wife in Emilia, but, my 
girl, your readings are absolutely new sometimes, and 
your strength is — what's the matter ? a farce yet ? well, 
what of it ? you, you have to go on in a farce after play- 
ing Shakespeare's Emilia with E. L. Davenport? I'm 
damned if I believe you ! " 

And I gathered up my cotton-velvet gown and hur- 
ried to my room to don calico dress, white cap and apron, 
and then rush down to the " property-room " for the 
perambulator I had to shove on, wondering what the star 
would think if he knew that his Emilia was merely walk- 
ing on in the farce of " Jones's Baby," without one line 
to speak, the second and speaking nursemaid having very 
justly been given to one of the other girls. But the need- 
less sending of me on, right after the noble part of 
Emilia, was evidently a sop thrown by my boldly inde- 
pendent manager to his ballet — Cerberus. 

Heretofore stars had advised or chided me privately, 
but, oh, dear, oh, dear ! next morning Mr. Davenport 
attacked Mr. Ellsler for " mismanagement," as he termed 
it, right before everybody. Among other things, he de- 
clared that it was a wound to his personal dignity as a 
star to have a girl who had supported him, " not ac- 
ceptably, but brilliantly," in a Shakespearian tragedy, sent 
on afterward in a vulgar farce. Then he added : " Aside 
from artistic reasons and from justice to her — good 
Lord! John, are you such a fool you don't understand 
her commercial value ? Here you have a girl, young and 
pretty " (always make allowances for the warmth of ar- 
gument), "with rare gifts and qualifications, who han- 
dles her audience like a magician, and you cheapen her 
like this? Placing her in the highest position only to 
cast her down again to the lowest. If she is only fit for 



MR. DAVENPORT CHAMPIONS ME 185 

the ballet, you insult your public by offering her in a 
leading part ; if she's fit for the leading part, you insult 
her by lowering her to the ballet ; but anyway I'm damned 
if I ever saw a merchant before who deliberately cheap- 
ened his own wares ! " 

If the floor could have opened I would have been its 
willing victim, and I am sure if Mr. Davenport had 
known that I would have to pay for every sharp word 
spoken, he would have restrained his too free speech for 
my sake — even though he was never able to do so for 
his own. 

And what a pity it was, for he not only often wounded 
his friends, but worse still, he injured himself by fling- 
ing the most boomerang-like speeches at the public when- 
ever he felt it was not properly appreciating him. He 
was wonderfully versatile, but though versatility is a 
requisite for any really good actor, yet for some mys- 
terious reason it never meets with great success outside 
of a foreign theatre. The American public demands 
specialists — one man to devote himself solely to trag- 
edy, another to romantic drama and duels, another to 
dress-suit satire. One woman to tears, another to laugh- 
ter, and woe betide the star who, able to act both comedy 
and tragedy, ventures to do so; there will be no packed 
house to bear witness to the appreciation felt for such 
skill and variety of talent. 

Mr. Davenport's vogue was probably waning when I 
first knew him. He had a certain intellectual following 
who delighted in the beautiful precision and distinctness 
of his reading of the royal Dane. He always seemed 
to me a Hamlet cut in crystal — so clear and pure, so 
cold and hard he was. The tender heart, the dread 
imaginings, the wounded pride and love, the fits and 
starts, the pain and passion that tortures Hamlet each in 
turn, were utterly incompatible with the fair, high- 
browed, princely philosopher Mr. Davenport presented 
to his followers. And after that performance I think 
he was most proud of his " horn-pipe " in the play of 



186 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" Black- Eyed Susan " ; and he danced it with a swiftness, 
a lightness, and a limberness of joint that were truly as- 
tonishing in a man of his years. Legend said that in 
London it had been a great " go," had drawn — oh, 
fabulous shillings, not to mention pounds — but I never 
saw him play William to a good house, never — neither 
did I ever see the dance encored. The people did not 
appreciate versatility, and one night, while before the 
curtain in responding to a call, he began a bitter tirade 
against the taste of the public — offering to stand there 
and count how many there were in the house, and telling 
them that next week that same house would not hold all 
who would wish to enter, for there would be a banjo 
played by a woman, and such an intellectual treat was 
not often to be had, but they must not spend all their 
money, he was even now learning to swallow swords and 
play the banjo; he was an old dog now, but if they would 
have a little patience he would learn their favorite tricks 
for them, even though he could not heartily congratulate 
them on their intelligence, etc., etc. Oh, it was dreadful 
taste and so unjust, too, to abuse those who were there 
for the fault of those who remained away. 

However, during the week's engagement of which I 
have been speaking, I had two nights in the ballet, then 
again I was cast for an important part. It was a white- 
letter day for me, professionally, for, thanks to Mr. 
Davenport, I learned for the first time the immense value 
of " business " alone, an action unsustained perhaps by a 
single word. I am not positive, but I believe the play 
was " A Soldier of Fortune " or " The Lion of St. Mark " 
— anyway it was a romantic drama. My part was not 
very long, but it had one most important scene with the 
hero. It was one of those parts that are talked about 
so much during the play that they gain a sort of fictitious 
value. At rehearsal I could not help noticing how fixedly 
Mr. Davenport kept gazing at me. His frown grew 
deeper and deeper as I read my lines, and I was growing 
most desperately frightened, when he suddenly exclaimed : 



RECALLING OLD DAYS 187 

" Wait a minute ! " I stopped ; he went on roughly, still 
staring hard at me, " I don't know whether you are worth 
breaking a vow for or not." 

Naturally I had nothing to say. He walked up the 
stage ; as he came down, he said : " I've kept that prom- 
ise for ten years, but you seem such an honest little soul 
about your work — I've a good mind, yes, I have a 
m ind " 

He sat down on the edge of the prompt-table, and 
though he addressed himself seemingly to me alone, the 
whole company were listening attentively. 

" When I first started out starring I honestly believed 
I had a mission to teach other less experienced actors 
how to act. I had made a close study of the plays I 
was to present, as well as of my own especial parts in 
them, and I actually thought it was my duty to impart 
my knowledge to those actors who were strange in them. 
Yes, that's the kind of a fool I was. I used to explain 
and describe, and show how, and work and sweat, and 
for my pains I received behind my back curses for keep- 
ing them so long at rehearsals, and before my face stolid 
indifference or a thinly veiled implication that I was 
grossly insulting them by my minute directions. Both 
myself and my voice were pretty well used up before I 
realized that my work had been wasted, my good inten- 
tions damned, that I had not been the leaven that could 
lighten the lump of stupid self-satisfaction we call the 
' profession ' ; and I took solemn oath to myself never 
again to volunteer any advice, any suggestion, any hint 
as to reading, or business, or make-up to man or woman 
in any play of mine. If they acted well, all right; if 
they acted ill, all right too. If I found them infernal 
sticks, I'd leave them sticks. I'd demand just one thing, 
my cue. As long as I got the word to speak on, all 
the rest might go to the devil ! Rehearsals shortened, 
actors had plenty of time for beer and pretzels ; and as 
I ceased to try to improve their work, they soon called 
me a good fellow. And now you come along, willing 



188 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

to work, knowing more than some of your elders, yet 
actually believing there is still something for you to 
learn. Ambitious, keenly observant, you tempt me to 
teach you some business for this part, and yet if I do 
I suppose what goes in at one ear will go out of the 
other ! " 

Embarrassed silence on my part. 

" Well," he went on, whimsically, " I see this is not 
your day for making protestations, but I'm going to give 
you the business, and if you choose to ignore it at 
night — why, that will serve me right for breaking my 
promise." 

" Mr. Davenport," I said, " I always try to remember 
what is told me, and I don't see why I should not re- 
member what you say ; goodness knows you speak plainly 
enough," at which, to my troubled surprise, everyone, 
star and all, burst out laughing, but presently he returned 
to the play. 

" See here," he said, " you, the adventuress, are 
worsted in this scene. You sit at the table. I have 
forced you to sign this paper, yet you say to me : ' You 
are a fool ! ' Now, how are you going to say it ? " 

" I don't know yet," I answered, " I have not heard 
the whole play through." 

" What's that got to do with it ? " he asked, sharplv. 

"Why," I said, "I don't know the story — I don't 
know whether she is really your enemy, or only injures 
you on impulse ; whether she truly loves anyone, or only 
makes believe love." 

" Good ! " he cried, " good ! that is sound reasoning. 
Well, you are my enemy, you love no one, so you see 
your ' fool ' is given with genuine feeling. It's years 
since the line has drawn fire, but you do this business, 
and see. You sit, I stand at the opposite side of the 
table. You write your name — you are supposed to be 
crushed. I believe it and tower triumphantly over you. 
The audience believes it too. Now you lay down your 
pen — but carefully, mind you, carefully ; then close the 



MAKING A HIT 189 

inkstand, and with very evident caution place it out of 
clanger of a fall. Be sure you take your time, there are 
places where deliberation is as effective as ever rush and 
hurry can be. Then with your cheek upon your hand, 
or your chin on your clasped hands — any attitude you 
fancy will do — look at me good and long, and then 
speak your line. Have you thought yet how to de- 
liver it?" 

" Well," I answered, hesitatingly, " to call you a fool 
in a colloquial tone would make people laugh, I think, 
and — and the words don't fit a declamatory style. I 
should think a rather low tone of sneering contempt 
would be best," and he shouted loudly : " You've hit it 
square on the head ! Now let's see you do it to-night. 
Don't look so frightened, my girl, only take your time, 
don't hurry. I've got to stand there till you speak, if 
you take all night. Be deliberate; you see, you have 
played all the rest so fiercely fast, the contrast will tell." 

The night came. Cornered, check-mated, I slowly 
signed the paper, wiped the pen, closed the inkstand, and 
set it aside. He stood like a statue. The silence reached 
the house. I stretched out my arms and rested my 
crossed hands lightly on the table. I met his glance a 
moment, then, with a curling lip, let my eyes sweep 
slowly down length of body to boot-tip and back again, 
rose slowly, made a little " pouf " with lips and wave 
of hand, and contemptuously drawled : " My friend, you 
are a fool ! " while, swift and sharp, came the applause 
Mr. Davenport at least had anticipated. The act ended 
almost immediately, and I hurried to him, crying: " Oh, 
thank you so much, Mr. Davenport. I never, never could 
have found applause in a speech like that." 

" Ah, it was the business, child, not the speech. Al- 
ways try to find good business." 

" Suit the action to the word ? " I laughed. 

" Yes," he answered, " and remember, Miss, actions 
speak louder than words, too ! But, my dear, it's a com- 
fort to teach you anything; and when I saw you trying 



igo LIFE ON THE STAGE 

so carefully to follow directions to-night, I swear I al- 
most prayed for the applause you were so honestly earn- 
ing. You are a brick, my girl ! oh, I don't mean one of 
those measly little common building bricks — I mean a 
great lovely Roman tile ! " 

And when, in God's good time, success came to me, 
as I entered the green-room at the Fifth Avenue one 
evening, a tall man in a gray suit released himself from 
a bevy of pretty women, and coming over to me, held out 
his hands, saying : " Did I ever make any remarks to 
you about building materials ? " and, laughingly, I an- 
swered : " Yes, sir, you said something about bricks 
some years ago." 

And while I ran away to change, he called after me: 
" Say, ' Jones's Baby ' isn't on to-night, is it ? " and 
immediately began to tell about Emilia, and such is the 
power of imagination that he declared " She raged up 
and down behind the scenes crying ' Murder,' till the 
very house broke loose, and right through all the peal- 
ing of the bells high and clear, you heard her voice 
topping everything! " 

I was resting and getting breath while the bell clanged, 
remember, but so much for human memory. 

It is strange how often the merest accident or the 
utterance of a chance word may harden wavering inten- 
tions into a fixed resolve. Though I am not aggressive, 
there is in me a trace of bull-dog tenacity, made up of 
patient endurance and sustained effort. Rather slow to 
move, when I am aroused I simply cannot let go my 
hold while breath is in me, unless I have had my will, 
have attained my object. 

Perhaps people may wonder why I retained my anom- 
alous position in that theatre — why I did not follow the 
advice of some of the lady stars, who gave me a kindly 
thought and word now and then. And at the risk of 
giving them a poor opinion of my wisdom, I present 
the reason that actuated me. One day at rehearsal, 
while waiting for the stage to be reset, several of the 



COLD COMFORT 191 

actresses gossiped about theatrical matters. One had a 
letter from a friend who announced her advance to " first 
walking lady," which turned the talk to promotion gen- 
erally, and laughingly she asked me : " What line of busi- 
ness shall you choose, Clara, when your turn comes ? " 
but before I could reply, the eldest woman present 
sneered : " Oh, she can save herself the trouble of choos- 
ing; if she's ever advanced it will be in some other city 
than this." 

I was astonished; I had just made one of my small 
hits, and had a nice little notice in the paper, but it did 
not occur to me that envy could sustain itself, keeping 
warm and strong and bitter on such slight nourishment 
as that. And then, she of the fetter, answered : " Why, 
Clara's getting along faster than anyone else in the com- 
pany, and I shall expect to see her playing leading busi- 
ness before so very many seasons pass by." 

" Leading business here ? " cried the other, " I guess 
not!" 

" Oh," laughed the first, " I see, you mean that Mrs. 
Ellsler will claim the leading parts as long as she lives ? 
Well, then, I shall expect to see Clara playing the lead- 
ing juveniles." 

" Well, you go right on expecting, and your hair will 
be as gray as mine is, when she gets into any line of 
business in this town ! " 

Unspeakably wounded, I asked, timidly : " But if I 
work hard and learn to act well, can't I hold a position 
as well as anyone else ? " 

She looked contemptuously at me, and then answered : 
" No, you must be a fool if you suppose that after stand- 
ing about in the ballet for months on end that Cleveland 
will ever accept you in a respectable line of business. 
You've got to go to some other place, where you are 
not known, and then come back as a stranger, if you 
want to be accepted here." 

A dull anger began to burn in me — there was some- 
thing so suggestive of shame in the words, " Some other 



192 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

place, where you are not known." I had nothing to 
hide. I could work, and by and by I should be able to 
act as well as any of them — better perhaps. I felt my 
teeth come together with a snap, the bull-dog instinct 
was aroused. I looked very steadily at the sneering 
speaker and said : " I shall never leave this theatre till 
I am leading woman." And they all laughed, but it 
was a promise, and all these provoking years I was by 
way of keeping it. The undertaking was hard, perhaps 
it was foolish, but of the group of women who laughed 
at me that day every one of them lived to see my promise 
kept to the letter. When I left Cleveland it was to go 
as leading woman to Cincinnati, one season before I en- 
tered New York. 

But after I had at last escaped the actual ballet, and 
was holding a recognized position, I was still treated 
quite en haut — en bas by the management. Mr. and 
Mrs. Ellsler had acquired the old-shoe habit. I was the 
easy old dramatic slipper, which it was pleasant to slip 
on so easily, but doubly pleasant to be able to shake off 
without effort. 

That you may thoroughly understand, I will explain 
that I was an excellent Amelia in " The Robbers " when 
a rather insignificant star played the piece, but when a 
Booth or some star of like magnitude appeared as 
Charles de Moor, then the easy slipper was dropped off, 
and Mrs. Ellsler herself played Amelia. Any part be- 
longing to me by right could be claimed by that lady, if 
she fancied it, and if she wearied of it, it came back to 
me. When we acted in the country in the summer-time, 
at Akron or Canton, where there were real theatres, she 
played Parthenia or Pauline in the " Lady of Lyons," 
or any other big part ; but if the next town was smaller, 
I played Parthenia or Pauline or what not. Because I 
had once been in the ballet I had become an old pair of 
dramatic slippers, to be slipped on or kicked off at will 
— rather humiliating to the spirit, but excellent train- 
ing for the growing actress, and I learned much from 



MR. ELLSLER'S VERSATILITY 193 

these queer " now-you're-in-it and now you're-not-in- 
it " sort of casts, and having much respect and admira- 
tion for Mr. Ellsler, I fortunately followed in his wake, 
rather than in that of any woman. He was one of the 
most versatile of actors. Pohnius or Dutchy (the op- 
posite to Chanfrau's Mose), crying old men or broad 
farce-comedy old men. Often he doubled King Duncan 
and Hecate in " Macbeth," singing any of the witches 
when a more suitable Hecate was on hand — acquainted 
with the whole range of the " legitimate/' his greatest 
pleasure was in acting some " bit " that he could elabo- 
rate into a valuable character. I remember the " switch- 
man " in " Under the Gaslight " — it could not have 
been twenty lines long, yet he made of him so cheery, 
so jolly, so kindly an old soul, everyone was sorry when 
he left the stage. He always had a good notice for the 
work, and a hearty reception ever after the first night. 
It was from him I learned my indifference to the length 
of my parts. The value of a character cannot always be 
measured by the length and number of its speeches, but 
I think the only word of instruction he ever gave me 
was : " Speak loud — speak distinctly," which was cer- 
tainly good as far as it went. He was the most genial 
of men, devotedly fond of children, he was " Uncle 
John " to them all, and while never famous for the size 
of the salaries he paid, he was so good a friend to his 
people that he often had trouble in making desirable 
changes, and the variegated and convoluted falsehoods 
he invented in order to get rid of one excessively bad 
old actor with an affectionate heart, who wished to stay 
at a reduced salary, must lay heavy on his conscience to 
this hour. 

I used to wonder why he had never taken to starring, 
but he said he had not had enough self-assertion. He 
was a hard-working man, but he seemed to lack resolu- 
tion. He had opinions — not convictions. He was al- 
ways second in his own theatre — often letting " I dare 
not wait upon I would." After years of acquaintance- 



194 LIF E ON THE STAGE 

ship, not to say friendship, when my ambition had been 
aroused, and I turned hopeful eyes toward New York, 
Mr. Ellsler opposed me bitterly, telling me I must be 
quite mad to think that the metropolis would give me a 
hearing. He said many pleasant and encouraging things, 
or wrote them, since I was in Cincinnati then. Among 
them I find : " The idea of your acting in New York ; 
why, better actresses than you are, or can ever hope to 
be, have been driven broken-hearted from its stage. Do 
you suppose you could tie the shoe of Eliza Logan, one 
of the greatest actresses that ever lived — but yet not 
good enough for New York? How about Julia Dean, 
too? Go East, and be rejected, and then see what man- 
ager will want you in the West." 

Verily not an encouraging friend. Again I find: 
" Undoubtedly you are the strongest, the most original, 
and the youngest leading lady in the profession — but 
why take any risk? why venture into New York, where 
you may fail? at any rate, wait ten years, till you are 
surer of yourself." 

Good heavens! If I was original and strong in the 
West, why should I wait ten years before venturing into 
the East? 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH 

I recall the Popularity and too Early Death of Edwin 

Adams. 

I HEAR many tales of the insolence of stars — of 
their overbearing manners, and their injustice to 
" little people," as the term goes ; but personally 
I have seen almost nothing of it. In the old days stars 
were generally patient and courteous in their manners 
to the supporting companies. 

Among the stars whose coming was always hailed with 
joy was Edwin Adams, he of the golden voice, he who 
should have prayed with fervor, both day and night : 
" Oh, God ! protect me from my friends ! " He was so 
popular with men, they sought him out, they followed 
him, and they generally expressed their liking through 
the medium of food and drink. Like every other sturdy 
man that's worth his salt, he could stand off an enemy, 
but he was as weak as water in the hands of a friend, 
and thus it came about that he often stood in slippery 
places, and though he fell again and again, yet was he 
forgiven as often as he sinned, and heartily welcomed 
back the next season, so great was his power to charm. 
He was not handsome, he was not heroic in form, but 
there was such dash and go, such sincerity and natural- 
ness in all his work, that whether he was love-making 
or fighting, singing or dying, he convinced you he was 
the character's self, whether that character was the de- 
mented victim of the Bastille, young Rover in " Wild 
Oats," or that most gallant gentleman Mercutio, in 
which no greater ever strode than that of Edwin Adams. 
His buoyancy of spirit, his unconquerable gayety made 

i95 



196 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

it seem but natural his passion for jesting should go with 
him to the very grave. Many a fine Mercutio gives: 

" a plague o' both your houses ! " 

with a resentful bitterness that implies blame to Romeo 
for his " taking off," which would be a most cruel legacy 
of grief and remorse to leave to his young friend — but 
Adams was that brave Mercutio : 

" That gallant spirit that aspired the clouds, 
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth." 

and whose last quips, coming faintly across paling lips, 
expressed still good-natured fun, and so : 

" a plague o' both your houses ! " 



but no blame at all. 

His grace of movement and his superb voice were his 
greatest gifts. Most stars had one rather short play 
which they reserved for Saturday nights, that they might 
be able to catch their night train en route for the next 
engagement; so it happened that Mr. Adams, having 
bravely held temptation from him during the first five 
nights, generally yielded to the endearments of his friends 
by the sixth, and was most anyone but himself when he 
came to dress for the performance of a play most sug- 
gestively named : " The Drunkard." It was a painful 
and a humiliating sight to see him wavering uncertainly 
in the entrance. All brightness, intelligence, and high 
endeavor extinguished by liquor's murky fog. His apol- 
ogies were humble and evidently sincere, but the sad 
memory was one not to be forgotten. 

I had just married, and we were in San Francisco. 
I was rehearsing for my engagement there. The papers 
said Mr. Adams had arrived from Australia and had 
been carried on a stretcher to a hotel, where, with his 
devoted wife by his side, he lay dying. A big lump rose 



THE LAST OF EDWIN ADAMS 197 

in my throat, tears filled my eyes. I asked my husband, 
who had greatly admired the actor, and who was glad 
to pay him any courtesy or service possible, to call, leave 
cards, and if he saw Mrs. Adams, which was improbable, 
to try to coax her out for a drive, if but for half an hour, 
and to deliver a message of remembrance and sympathy 
from me to her husband. To his surprise, he was ad- 
mitted by the dying man's desire to his room, where the 
worn, weary, self-contained, ever gently smiling wife sat 
and, like an automaton, fanned hour by hour, softly, 
steadily fanned breath between those parched lips, that 
whispered a gracious message of congratulation and 
thanks. 

Mrs. Adams never left him, scarce took her eyes from 
him. Poor wife! who knew she could hold him but a 
few hours longer. 

My husband was deeply moved, and when he tried to 
describe to me that wasted frame — those helpless hands, 
whose faintly twitching fingers could no longer pluck at 
the folded sheet, my mind obstinately refused to accept 
the picture, and instead, through a blur of tears, I saw 
him as on that last morning, when in his prime, strong 
and gentle, at his rehearsal of " Enoch Arden," he said 
to me : "I am disappointed to the very heart, Clara, that 
you are not my Annie Lee." 

He took his hat off, he drew his hand across his eyes. 
" I can't find her," he said, with that touch of pathos 
that made his voice irresistible ; " no, I have not found 
her yet — they are not innocent and brave! They are 
bouncing, buxom creatures or they are whimpering lit- 
tle milk-sops. They are never fisher-maidens, flower- 
pure, yet strong as the salt of the sea ! She loved them 
both, Clara, yet she was no more weak nor bad than 
when, with childish lips, she innocently promised to be 
' a little wife to both ' the angry lads — to Philip and 
young Enoch ! Now your eyes are sea-eyes, and your 
voice — oh, I am disappointed ! I thought I should find 
my Annie here ! " 



198 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

And so I see him now as I think with tender sorrow 
of the actor who was so strong and yet so weak — dear 
Ned Adams ! 

When Mr. Joseph Jefferson came to us I found his 
acting nothing less than a revelation. Here, in full per- 
fection, was the style I had feebly, almost blindly been 
reaching for. This man, this poet of comedy, as he 
seemed to me, had so perfectly wedded nature to art that 
they were indeed one. Here again I found the immense 
value of " business " the most minute, the worth of re- 
straint, if you had power to restrain, and learned that 
his perfect naturalness was the result of his exquisite 
art in cutting back and training nature's too great ex- 
uberance. 

I was allowed to play Meenie, his daughter, in the play 
of " Rip Van Winkle," and my delight knew no bounds. 
He was very gentle and kind, he gave me pleasant words 
of praise for my work; he was very great, and — and 
his eyes were fine, and I approved of his chin, too, and 
I was, in fact, rapidly blending the actor and the man in 
one personality. In the last act, when kneeling at his 
feet, during our long wait upon the stage, I knelt and 
adored! and he — oh, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Jefferson, that 
I should say it, but did you not hold my fingers unneces- 
sarily close when you made some mild little remarks that 
were not in the play, but which filled my breast with quite 
outrageous joy, and pride — indeed, my crop of young 
affections, always rather a sparse growth, came very near 
being gathered into a small sheaf and laid at your feet. 

Fortunately, I learned in time that there was an almost 
brand-new wife in the hotel next door, and I looked at 
him with big, reproachful eyes and kept my fingers to 
myself, and wisely put off the harvesting of my affec- 
tions until some distant day. 

Mind you, I was well within my rights in this matter. 
Girls always fall in love with stars — some fall in love 
with all of them, but that must be fatiguing ; besides, as 
I said before, my affections were of such sparse growth 



MR. JEFFERSON'S ADVICE 199 

they could not go round. Yet since I could honor thus 
but one star, I must say I look back with complete ap- 
proval upon my early choice, and the shock to my heart 
did not prevent me from treasuring up some kindly words 
of advice from the artist-actor anent the making-up of 
eyes for the stage. 

Said he to me one evening : " My girl, I want to speak 
to you about that ' make-up ' you have on your eyes." 

" Yes, sir ? " I answered, interrogatively, feeling very 
hot and uncomfortable, " have I too much on? " 

" Well, yes," he said, " I think you have, though you 
have much less than most women wear." 

" Oh, yes," I hurriedly interposed, " there was a 
French dancer here who covered nearly a third of her 
eyelids with a broad blue-black band of pomatum, and 
she said " 

" Oh," he protested, " I know, she said it made the 
eyes large and lustrous, and as you see yourself in the 
glass it does seem to have that effect; but, by the way, 
what do you think of my eyes ? " 

And with truth and promptness, I made answer : " I 
think they're lovely." 

My unexpected candor proved rather confusing, for for 
a moment he " Er-er-erd," and finally said : I meant 
as a feature of acting, they are good acting eyes, aren't 
they? Well, you don't find them made up, do you? 
Now listen to me, child, always be guided as far as pos- 
sible by nature. When you make up your face, you get 
powder on your eyelashes, nature made them dark, so 
you are free to touch the lashes themselves with ink or 
pomade, but you should not paint a great band about 
your eye, with a long line added at the corner to rob it 
of every bit of expression. And now as to the beauty 
this lining is supposed to bring, some night when you 
have time I want you to try a little experiment. Make 
up your face carefully, darken your brows and the lashes 
of one eye; as to the other eye, you must load the lashes 
with black pomade, then draw a black line beneath the 



200 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

eye, and a broad line on its upper lid, and a final line out 
from the corner. The result will be an added lustre to 
the made-up eye, a seeming gain in brilliancy ; but now, 
watching your reflection all the time, move slowly back- 
ward from the glass, and an odd thing will happen, that 
made-up eye will gradually grow smaller and smaller, 
until, at a distance much less than that of the auditorium, 
it will really look more like a round black hole than 
anything else, and will be absolutely without expression. 
You have an admirable stage eye — an actor's eye, sen- 
sitive, expressive, well opened, it's a pity to spoil it with 
a load of blacking." 

And I said, gratefully : " I'll never do it again, sir," 
and I never have, first from respect to a great actor's 
opinion, and gratitude for his kindly interest, later hav- 
ing tried his experiment, from the conviction that he was 
right, and finally because my tears would have sent inky 
rivulets down my cheeks had I indulged in black-banded 
eyes. So in all these years of work, just once, in playing 
a tricky, treacherous, plotting female, that I felt should 
be a close-eyed, thin-lipped creature, I have painted and 
elongated my eyes, otherwise I have kept my promise 
" not to do it again." 

I met Mr. Jefferson in Paris at that dreadful time when 
he was threatened with blindness, and I never shall for- 
get his gentle patience, his marvelous courage. That 
was a day of real rejoicing to me, when the news came 
that his sight was saved. Blindness coming upon any 
man is a horror, but to a man who can see nature as 
Joseph Jefferson sees her it would have been an almost in- 
credible cruelty. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH 

I See an Actress Dethroned — I Make Myself a Promise, 
for the World Does Move. 

TO be discarded by the public, that is the bete 
noire, the unconquerable dread and terror of the 
actor. To fail in the great struggle for suprem- 
acy is nothing compared to the agony of falling after 
the height has once been won. 

Few people can think of the infamous casting down 
of the great column Vendome without a shiver of pain 
— the smashing of the memorial tablet, the shattering 
of the statue, these are sights to shrink from, yet what 
does such shrinking amount to when compared to the 
pain of seeing a human being thrust from the sunlight 
of public popularity into the darkness of obscurity? 

I was witness once to the discrowning of an actress, 
and if I could forget the anguish of her eyes, the pallor 
beneath her rouge, I would be a most grateful woman. 

She had been handsome in her prime, handsome in 
the regular-featured, statuesque fashion so desirable for 

an actress of tragic parts; but Mrs. P (for I shall 

call her only by that initial, as it seems to me that nam- 
ing her fully would be unkind) had reached, yes, had 
passed, middle age and had wandered far into distant 
places, had known much sorrow, and, alas, for her, had 
not noticed that her profession, like everything alive, like 
the great God-made world itself, moved, moved, moved! 
So not noticing, she, poor thing, stood still in her method 
of work, loyally doing her best in the style of acting that 
had been so intensely admired in her triumphant youth. 

She had most successfully starred in Cleveland years 
before, but at the time I speak of she was returning 



202 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

from distant parts, widowed and poor, yet quite, quite 
confident of her ability to please the public, and with plans 
all made to star two, possibly three, years, long enough 
to secure a little home and tiny income, when she would 
retire gracefully from the sight of the regretful public. 
Meantime she entreated Mr. Ellsler, if possible, to give 
her an engagement, that she might earn money enough 
to carry her to New York and see the great agents there. 

By some unlooked-for chance the very next week was 
open, and rather tremulously as manager, but kind- 
heartedly as man, Mr. Ellsler engaged her for that week. 

The city was billed accordingly : " Mrs. P , the 

Queen of Tragedy ! " — " The celebrated Mrs. P , 

Cleveland's great favorite ! " — " Especial engagement 
of Mrs. P ! " etc., etc. 

I had a tiny part in the old Grecian tragedy she opened 
in. I came early, as was my wont, and when dressed 
went out to look at the house — good heavens! I 
gasped. Poor? it was worse than poor. Bad? it was 
worse than bad. My heart sank for her as I recalled 
how, that morning, she had asked, with a little noncha- 
lant air of : " It doesn't really matter, of course, but do 
the people here throw their flowers still, or do they send 
them up over the footlights ? " Flowers ? Oh, poor 
Mrs. P ! 

The overture had ended before she came out of her 
dressing-room, so she had no warning of what the house 
was like. She was all alight with pleasant anticipation. 
At a little distance she looked remarkably well; her 
Grecian robes hung gracefully, her hair was arranged 
and filleted correctly and becomingly, her movements 
were assured; only looking at the deeply drawn lines 
about her mouth, made one regret that her opening 
speeches referred so distinctly to her " dewy youth " ; 
but Cleveland was well used to that sort of contradiction, 
and I might have taken heart of grace for her if only 
she had not looked so very pleased and happy. 

The opening scene of the old-fashioned play was well 



AN ACTRESS DETHRONED 203 

on when the star appeared, and smiling graciously — 
faced the almost empty house. She halted — she gave 
the sort of sudden gasp that a dash of icy water in the 
face might cause. The humiliating half-dozen involun- 
tary hand-claps that had greeted her fell into silence as 
she came fully into view, where she stood dismayed, 
stricken — for she was an old actress and she read the 
signs aright, she knew this was the great taboo. 

Her face whitened beneath her rouge, her lips moved 
silently. One moment she turned her back squarely 
upon the audience, for she knew her face was anguished, 
and moved by the same instinct that makes an Indian 
draw the blanket across his dying face, or the wounded 
animal seek deepest solitude, she sought to hide her suf- 
fering from the coldly observant few. 

With the light stricken from her eyes they looked dull 
and sunken, while every nerve and muscle of her poor 
face seemed a-quiver. It was a dreadful moment for us 
who looked on and understood. 

Presently she clinched her hands, drew a long breath, 
and facing about, took up the burden of the play, and in 
cold, flat tones began her part. She did her best in 
the old, stilted declamatory style, that was as dead as 
many of the men and women were who used to applaud 
it. Once only the audience warmed to her a trifle, and 
as she accepted their half-hearted " call," her sad eyes 
roved over the empty spaces of the house, a faint, tired 
smile touched her lips, while two great tears coursed 
down her cheeks. It was the moment of renunciation! 
They denied her right to the crown of popularity, and 
she, with that piteous smile, bowed to their verdict, as an 
actress must. 

At the curtain's final fall her stardom was over. She 
went very quietly to Mr. Ellsler and gave him back the 
engagement he had granted her, saying, simply : " They 
do not want me any longer." 

A short time after that, she sat one evening in Mr. 
Ellsler's family box, and with wide, astonished eyes gazed 



204 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

at the packed house which greeted the jig, the clog, the 
song, the banjo of Miss Lotta, whose innocent deviltries 
were bringing her a fortune, and when, in response to a 
" call," instead of appearing, Miss Lotta thrust her foot 
and ankle out beyond the curtain and wriggled them at 

the delighted crowd, poor Mrs. P drew her hand 

across her forehead and said, in bewildered tones : " But 
— I don't understand ! " 

No, she could not understand, and Miss Lotta had not 
yet faced New York, hence John Brougham, the witty, 
wise, and kindly Irish gentleman, had not yet had his 
opportunity of summing up the brilliant and erratic star, 
as he did later on in these words : " Act, acting, actress ? 
what are you thinking of ? she's no actress, she's — why, 
she's a little dramatic cocktail ! " which was a delicious 
Broughamism and truthful withal. 

But that sad night, when Mrs. P first set her feet 

in the path of obscurity, I took to myself a lesson, and 
said : " While I live, I will move. I will not stand still 
in my satisfaction, should success ever come to me — 
but will try to keep my harness bright by action, in at least 
an effort to keep abreast with the world, for verily, verily, 
it does move ! " 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH 

Mr. Lawrence Barrett the Brilliant and his Brother Joseph 
the Unfortunate. 

THERE were few stars with whom I took greater 
pleasure in acting than with Mr. Lawrence Bar- 
rett. I sometimes wonder if even now this pro- 
fession really knows what great reason it has to be 
proud of him. He was a man respected by all, admired 
by many, and if loved but by few, theirs was a love so 
profound and so tender it amply sufficed. 

We are a censorious people, and just as our greatest 
virtue is generosity in giving, so our greatest fault is the 
eagerness with which we seek out the mote in our neigh- 
bor's eye, without feeling the slightest desire for the 
removal of the beam in our own eye. Thus one finds 
that the first and clearest memory actors have of Mr. 
Barrett is of his irascible temper and a certain air of su- 
periority, not of his erudition, of the high position he 
won socially as well as artistically, of the almost Titanic 
struggle of his young manhood with adverse circum- 
stances. 

Nor does that imply the slightest malice on their part. 
Actors, as a family trait, have a touch of childishness 
about them which they come by honestly enough. We 
all know the farther we get from infancy the weaker the 
imagination grows. Now it is imagination that makes 
the man an actor, so it is not wonderful if with the pow- 
erful creative fancy of childhood he should also retain a 
touch of its petulance and self-consciousness. Thus to 
many actors Mr. Barrett's greatness is lost sight of in 
the memory of some dogmatic utterance or sharp reproval 
that wounded self-love. 

205 



206 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

It would seem like presumption for me to offer any 
word of praise for the artistic work of his later years; 
the world remembers it ; the world knows, too, how high 
he climbed, how secure was his position; but twice I 
have heard the stories of his earlier years — some from 
the lips of his brave wife, once from the lips of that be- 
loved brother Joe, who was yet his dread and sorrow — 
and at each telling my throat ached at the pain of it, 
while my nerves thrilled with admiration for such en- 
durance, such splendid determination. 

A paradox is, I believe, something seemingly absurd, 
yet true in fact. In that case I was not so very far wrong, 
in spite of general laughter, when, after my first rehearsal 
with him, I termed Mr. Barrett a man of cold enthusiasm. 
" But," one cried to me, " you stupid — that's a paradox ! 
don't you see your words contradict each other ? " 

" Well," I answered, with shame-faced obstinacy, 
" perhaps they do, but they are not contradicted by him. 
You all call him icy-cold, and / know he is truly en- 
thusiastic over the possibilities of this play, so that 
makes what I call cold enthusiasm, however par-a-para- 
doxy (?) it sounds." 

And now, after all the years, I can approve that child- 
ish judgment. He was a man whose intellectual enthusi- 
asm was backed by a cold determination that would never 
let him say " die " while he had breath in his body and 
a stage to rehearse on. 

I have a miserable memory for names, and often in 
the middle of a remark the name I intended to mention 
will pass from my remembrance utterly; so, all my life, 
I have had the very bad habit of trying to make my hearers 
understand whom I meant by imitating or mentioning 
some trait peculiar to the nameless one, and I generally 
succeeded. 

As, for instance, when I wished to tell whom I had 
seen taking away a certain book, I said : " It was Mr. 
— er — er, oh, you know, Mr. — er, why this man," and 
I pulled in my head like a turtle and hitched up my shoul- 



LAWRENCE BARRETT 207 

ders to my ears, and the anxious owner cried : " Oh, 
Thompson has it, has he?" Thompson having, so far 
as we could see, no neck at all — my pantomime sug- 
gested his name. 

Everyone can recall the enormous brow of Mr. Bar- 
rett, and how beneath his great, burning eyes his cheeks 
hollowed suddenly in, thinning down to his sensitive 
mouth. I was on the stage in New Orleans, the first 
morning of my engagement there (I was under Mr. 
Daly's management, but he had loaned me for a fort- 
night), and 1 started out with: " Mr. Daly said to please 

ask Mr. ," away went the name — goodness gracious, 

should I forget my own name next! 

The stage manager suggested : " Mr. Rogers." 

" No, oh, no ! I mean Mr. — er — er," and I trailed 
off helplessly. 

" Mr. Seymour?" offered a lady. 

" No, no ! that's not it ! " I cried ; " why, goodness 
mercy me! you all know whom I mean — the — the 
actor with the hungry eyes? " 

" Oh, Barrett ! " they shouted, all save one voice, that 
with a mighty laugh cried out : " That's my brother 
Larry, God bless him! no one could miss that descrip- 
tion, for sure he looks as hungry to-day as ever he did 
when he felt hungry to his heart's core ! " 

And so it was that I first met poor Joe Barrett, who 
worshipped the brother whose sore torment he was. For 
this great, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced fellow with the 
boyish laugh had ever in his veins the craving for liquor 
— that awful inherited appetite that can nullify prayer 
and break down the most fixed determination. 

" Ah ! " he cried to me, " no one, no one can ever know 
how good Larry has been to me, for while he is fighting 
and struggling to rise, every little while some lapse of 
mine drags him back a bit. Yet he never casts me off — 
never disowns me. He has had to discharge me for the 
sake of discipline here, but he has re-engaged me. He 
has sent me away, but he has taken me back again. I 



208 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

promise, and fail to keep" my promise. I fall, and he 
picks me up. Through the cursed papers I have dragged 
my brother through the mud, but the sweet Saviour could 
hardly forgive me more fully than Larry does, for, look 
you, he never forgets that I am the son of my father, 
who was accursed before me, while he is the son of our 
poor mother — blessed be her name! It isn't that I 
don't try. I keep straight until the agony of longing 
begins to turn into a mad desire to do bodily harm to 
someone — anyone, and then, fearing worse, I drink my 
fill, and the papers find me out, and are not content to 
tell of the disgraceful condition of Joseph Barrett, but 
must add, always, ' the brother of the prominent actor, 
Mr. Lawrence Barrett.' Poor Larry! poor little deli- 
cate chap that he used to be, with his big, brainy head — 
too heavy for his weak neck and frail body to carry." 

And then he told me of their sorrowful life, their pov- 
erty. The often-idle father and his dislike for the deli- 
cate boy, whose only moment of happiness was when the 
weary mother, the poor supper over, sat for a little to 
breathe and rest, and held his heavy head upon her lov- 
ing breast, while Joe sang his songs or told all the hap- 
penings of the day. 

That happy Joe, who had no pride and was quite as 
satisfied without a seat to his small trousers as with one ! 
Then he told me how hard it was for Lawrence to learn ; 
how he had to grind and grind at the simplest lesson, but 
once having acquired it, it was his for life. 

" Why, even now," said he, " in confidence I'm tell- 
ing you, my brother is studying like a little child at 
French, and it does seem that he cannot learn it. He 
works so desperately over it, a doctor has warned him 
he must choose between French and his many " parts " 
or break down from overwork. But he will go on ham- 
mering at his parlez-voas until he learns them or dies 
trying." 

" If you were to live with your brother, might not that 
help to keep you strong ? " I asked. 



UNFORTUNATE JOE BARRETT 209 

" Now, my dear little woman," he smiled, " Larry is 
human, in some respects, if he is almost God-like toward 
me. Remember he has a young family now, and though 
his wife is as good as gold and always patient with me, 
I am not the kind of example a man would care to place 
before his little ones, and as Lawrence is devoured with 
ambition for them and their future, he rightly guards 
them from too close contact with the drag and curse of 
his own life, in whom he, and he alone, can see the sturdy 
tow-headed brother of the old boyish days, who saved 
him from many and many a kick and thump his delicate 
body could ill have borne." 

Joe told me of his dead wife — Viola Crocker that 
was — the niece of Mrs. Bowers and Mrs. Conway; of 
their happiness and their misery. Describing himself as 
having been " in heaven or in hell — without any be- 
twixts and betweens." His devotion to me was very 
great. He was " hard-up " for money, as the men ex- 
press it, but he would manage to bring me a single rose 
or one bunch of grapes or a half-dozen mushrooms or 
some such small offering every day; and learning of his 
bitter mortification because he could not hire a carriage 
to take me out to see the curious old French cemetery, 
I made him supremely happy by expressing a desire to 
ride in one of those funny bob-tailed, mule-drawn street- 
cars — the result being a trip by my mother, Mr. Bar- 
rett, and myself to the famous cemetery. 

I don't know that I ever heard anyone sing Irish and 
Scottish ballads more tenderly, more pathetically than 
did Joe Barrett, and as my mother was very fond of old 
songs, he used to sit and sing one after another for her. 
That day there was no one in the crawling little car but 
we three, and presently he began to sing. But, oh, what 
was it that he sang? Irish, unmistakably — a lament, 
rising toward its close into the keen of some clan. It 
wrung the very heart. 

" Don't ! " I exclaimed. My mother's face was turned 
awav, my throat ached, even Joe's eyes had filled. 
"What is it?" I asked. 



210 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" I don't know its name," he answered, " I have al- 
ways put it on programmes as ' A Lament/ I learned 
it from an Irish emigrant-lad, who was from the North, 
and who was dying fast from consumption and home- 
hunger. Is not that wail chilling? As he gave the song 
it seemed like a message from the dying." 

At the end of our stroll among the flowers and trees 
and past those strange stone structures that look so like 
serious-minded bake-ovens, having to wait for a car, we 
sat on a stone bench, and in that quiet city of the dead 
Joe's voice rose, tenderly reverent, in that simple air that 
was yet an anguish of longing, followed by a wail for 
the dead. 

My mother wept silently. I said, softly : " It's a 
plaint and a farewell," and Joe brought his eyes back 
from the great cross, blackly silhouetted against the 
flaming sky, and slowly said : " Beloved among women, 
it is a message — a message from the dying or the dead, 
believe that." 

And a time came when — well, when almost I did be- 
lieve that. 

Later on, when Mr. Barrett stood second only to Mr. 
Booth in his profession, well established, well off, well 
dressed, polished and refined of manner, aye, and genial, 
too, to those he liked, I came by accident upon a most 
gracious act of his and, following it up, found him deep 
in a conspiracy to deceive a stricken woman into receiv- 
ing the aid her piteous determination to stand alone made 
impossible to offer openly. I looked at the generous, 
prosperous, intellectual, intensely active gentleman, sur- 
rounded by clever wife and the pretty, thoroughly edu- 
cated daughters, who were chaperoned in all their walks 
to and from park or music-lesson or shopping-trip, and 
I wondered at the distance little " Larry," with the heavy 
head and frail body, had traveled, and bowed respect- 
fully to such magnificent energy. 

Even then there arose a cry from the profession that 
Mr. Barrett was dictatorial, that he assumed airs of su- 



MRS. LAWRENCE BARRETT 211 

periority. Mr. Barrett was wrapped up, soul and body, 
in the proper production of the play in hand. He was 
keenly observant and he was sensitive. When an actor 
had his mind fixed upon a smoke or a glass of beer, and 
cared not one continental dollar whether the play failed 
or succeeded, so long as he got his " twenty dollars 
per — ," Mr. Barrett knew it, and became " dictatorial " 
in his effort to force the man into doing his work prop- 
erly. I worked with him, both as a nobody and as some- 
body, and I know that an honest effort to comprehend 
and carry out his wishes was recognized and appreciated. 

As for his airs of superiority — well, the fact is he 
was superior to many. He was intellectual and he was 
a student to the day of his death. When work at the 
theatre was over he turned to study. He never was well 
acquainted with Tom and Dick, nor yet with Harry. His 
back fitted a lamp-post badly. He would not have known 
how " to jolly the crowd." He was not a full, volu- 
minous, and ready story-teller for the boys, who called him 
cold and hard. God knows he had needed the coldness 
and the so-called hardness, or how could he have en- 
dured the privations of the long journey from his weary 
mother's side to this position of honor. 

Cold, hard, dictatorial, superior? Well, there is a 
weak lean-on-somebody sort of woman, who will love 
any man who will feed and shelter her — she doesn't 
count. But when a clear-minded, business-like, clever 
woman, a wife for many years, loves her husband with 
the tenderest sentiment and devotion, I'm ready to wager 
something that it was tenderness and devotion in the 
husband that first aroused like sentiments in the wife. 

Mrs. Barrett was shrewd, far-seeing, business-like — 
a devoted and watchful mother, but her love for her hus- 
band had still the freshness, the delicate sentiment of 
young wifehood. When she thought fit, she bullied him 
shamefully ; when she thought fitter, she " guyed " him 
unmercifully. Think of that! And it was delightful to 
see the great, solemn-eyed personification of dignity 
smilingly accepting her buffets. 



212 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

But, oh, to hear that wife tell of the sorrows and trials 
they had faced together, of their absurd makeshifts, of 
their small triumphs over poverty, of Lawrence's steady 
advance in his profession, of that beautiful day when they 
moved into a little house all by themselves, when he be- 
came, as he laughingly boasted, " a householder, not a 
forlorn, down-trodden boarder ! " 

Their family, besides themselves, then consisted of one 
little girl and Lawrence's beloved old mother, and he had 
a room to study in in peace, and the two women talked 
and planned endlessly about curtains and furniture, and 

— oh, well, about some more very small garments that 
would, God willing, be needed before a very great while. 
And one day Lawrence looked about his little table, and 
said : " It's too good, it can't last, it can't ! " and the 
women kissed him and laughed at him; yet all the time 
he was right, it did not last. An awful bolt seemed to 
fall from the blue sky. It was one of those pitiful dis- 
asters that sometimes come upon the very old — par- 
ticularly to those who have endured much, suffered much, 
as had the elder Mrs. Barrett in the past. 

I wept as I heard the story of the devoted son's dry- 
eyed agony, of the awful fears his condition aroused in 
the minds of those close to him, and then suddenly she, 
the wife, had been stricken down, and her danger and 
that of the tiny babe had brought him to his old self 
again. 

He worked on then for some months, grateful for the 
sparing of his dear ones, when quite suddenly and pain- 
lessly the stricken old mother passed from sleep to life 
everlasting. Then when Joseph was to be summoned 

— Joe who worshipped the mother's footprint in the 
dust — he was not to be found. He had fallen again 
into disgrace, had been discharged, had disappeared, no 
one knew whither. 

"Oh, dear Father!" cried Mrs. Barrett, "what did 
not Lawrence suffer for Joe! knowing what his agony 
would be when he knew all — but we could do no more. 



THEIR MOTHER'S BURIAL 213 

The funeral took place. White as marble, Lawrence sent 
us all home, and himself waited till the last clod of earth 
was piled upon the grave ; then waited till the men had 
gone, waited to kneel and pray a moment before leaving 
the old mother there alone. And as he knelt he noted 
how nearly dark it was, and thought he must not linger 
long or the gates would be locked upon him. As he rose 
from his knees, he was startled to see, through the dusk, 
a tall form coming toward him. It would dodge behind 
a monument, and after a moment's pause would come 
a little nearer. Suddenly the drooping, lurching figure 
became familiar to him. With a groan he hid himself 
behind a tombstone and waited — waited until suspicion 
became certainty, and he knew that the bent, weary 
funeral guest was his brother, Joe! 

" He held his peace until the wanderer found his way 
along the darkening path to that pathetic stretch of freshly 
broken earth, where, with an exceeding bitter cry, he 
flung his arms above his head and fell all his length along 
the grave that held the sweetest and the holiest thing 
God had ever given him, an honest, loving mother, and 
clutched the damp clods in his burning hands, and 
gasped out : ' Oh, mother ! I have hungered and I have 
tramped with the curse upon me, too; I have hungered 
and tramped so far, so far, hoping just to be in time to 
see your dear face once more, and now they've shut you 
away from me, from the bad boy you never turned your 
patient eyes away from ! Oh, mother ! whatever can I 
do without you, all alone ! all alone ! ' 

" At that child-like cry from the broken man, prostrate 
on the grave, Lawrence Barrett's heart turned to water, 
and kneeling down he lifted to his breast the tear-blurred, 
drink-blemished face of his brother, and kissed him as 
his mother might have done. Thus they prayed together 
for the repose of the soul of their beloved, and then, with 
his arm about the wanderer, to steady his failing steps, 
Lawrence led him to his little home, and, as they entered, 
he turned and said : ' Joe, can't you take back those 



214 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

words, " all alone," can't you ? ' and Joe nodded his head, 
and throwing his arms about his brother's neck, an- 
swered : ' Never alone, while my little brother Larry 
lives and forgives ! ' " 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH 

I play " Marie " to Oblige — Mr. Barrett's Remarkable 
Call — Did I Receive a Message from the Dying or the 
Dead ? 

FROM the time when, as a ballet-girl, I was called 
forward and given the part of Marie in " The 
Marble Heart," a play Mr. Barrett was starring 
in, to the then distant day of that really splendid com- 
bination with Mr. Edwin Booth, I never saw the former 
when he was not burning with excitement over some 
production he had in mind, if not yet in rehearsal. Even 
in his sleep he saw perfect pictures of scenery not yet 
painted, just as before " Ganalon " he used to dream of 
sharp lance and gay pennon moving in serried ranks, of 
long lines of nobles and gentlemen who wore the Cross 
of the Crusader. 

His friends were among the highest of God's Aris- 
tocracy of Brains — 'twas odd that sculptors, artists, 
poets, thinkers should strike hands with so " cold " a 
man and call him friend! 

I remember well the dismayed look that came upon 
his face when I was ordered from the ballet ranks to 
take the place of the lady — a hard, high-voiced sou- 
brette, who was to have played Marie, had not a sore 
throat mercifully prevented her. But at my first '" Thank 
you — I'd rather go — yonder — ," pointing to the dis- 
tant convent, his eyes widened, suddenly a sort of tremor 
came to his lips. He was at my side in an instant, tell- 
ing me to indicate my convent as on the opposite side, 
so that my own attitude would be more picturesque to 
the audience. Between the acts he said to me : " Have 
you any opinion of Marie, Miss er — er ? " 

215 



216 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" My name's ' just Clara,' " I kindly interjected. 

" Well," he smiled, " ' just Clara,' have you formed 
any idea of this Marie's character ? " 

" Why," I answered, " to me she seems a perfect walk- 
ing gratitude; in real life she would be rather dog-like, 
I'm afraid; but in the play she is just beautiful." 

He looked solemnly at me, and then he said : " And 
you are just beautiful, too, for you are a little thinking 
actress. Now if you have the power of expressing what 
you think, do you know I am very honestly interested, 
' just Clara,' in your share of to-night's work." 

The play went well as a whole, and as Marie is one 
of the most tenderly pathetic creations conceivable, I sat 
and wept as I told her story; but imagine my amaze- 
ment when, as Mr. Barrett bent over my hand, a great 
hot tear fell from his cheek upon it. 

" Oh, my girl," he said, when the play was over, 
" don't let anything on God's footstool dishearten you. 
Work! work! you have such power, such delicacy of 
expression with it — you are Marie, the little stupidly 
religious, dog-like ' Marie the resigned,' that you have 
renamed for me ' Marie the grateful.' ' : 

When I was leading woman he wished to do that play 
for a single night. Of course Marco belonged to me, 
but the big, handsome, cold-voiced second woman could 
well talk through Marco, while she would (artistically 
speaking) damn Marie. Mr. Barrett was very hungry- 
eyed, there was positive famine in them, as he mourn- 
fully said: " I would give a great deal to hear you tell 
Marie's story again — to see you and your little bundle 
and bandaged foot. Such a clever touch that — that 
bandaged foot, no other Marie dares do that; but you 
have turned your back on the ' grateful one ' ; you can't 
afford to do her again." 

" Mr. Barrett," I asked, " do you wish me to play 
Marie now ? " 

"Do I wish it?" he echoed, "I wish it with all my 
heart, but I have no right to ask a sacrifice from you, 



PLAYING "MARIE" FOR BARRETT 217 

even if it would benefit the whole performance, as well 
as give me a personal pleasure."' 

" If the manager does not object," I said, " I am quite 
willing to give up the leading part and play Marie again." 

He held my hands, he fairly stammered for a moment, 
then he said : " You are an artiste and a brave and gen- 
erous girl. I shall remember this action of yours, ' just 
Clara,' always." 

The amazed manager, after some objection, having 
consented, I once more put on the rusty black gown, took 
my small bundle, and asked of the gay ladies from Paris 
my way to the convent, yonder — finding in the tears of 
the audience and the excellence of the general perform- 
ance, full reward for playing second fiddle that evening. 

In my early married days, when the great coflee-urn 
was still a menace to my composure and dignity, at a 
little home-dinner, when Mr. William Black, the famous 
writer of Scottish novels, honored me by his presence 
on my right, Mr. Barrett on my left, moved, no one 
knows by what freak of memory, lifted his glass, and, 
speaking low, said : " ' Just Clara,' your health ! " 

I laughed a little, and was nodding back, when Mr. 
Black, who saw everything through those glasses of his, 
cried out : " Favoritism, favoritism ! why, bless my heart, 
I drank your health ten minutes ago, and you never 
blushed a blush for me! And I am chief guest, and on 
the right hand of the hostess — explanations are now in 
order ! " 

And Mr. Barrett said that he would explain on their 
way to the club, whereupon Mr. Black wrinkled up his 
nose delightedly, and said he " scented a story " — 
" and, oh," he cried, " it's the sweetest scent in the world, 
the most fascinating trail to follow ! " 

But I was thankful that he did not hunt down his 
quarry then and there, for he could be as mischievous as 
a squirrel and as persistent as any enfant terrible, if he 
thought you were depriving him of a story. 

Though tears creep into my eyes at the same moment, 



218 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

yet must I laugh whenever I think of Mr. Barrett's last 
" call " upon me. We were unknowingly stopping in 
the same hotel. On the way to the dining-room for a 
bit of lunch, Mr. Harriott and Mr. Barrett met, ex- 
changed greetings, and when the latter found I was not 
going to luncheon, and was moreover suffering from a 
most severe attack of neuralgia, he asked if he could not 
call upon me for a few moments. 

Mr. Harriott looked doubtful, and while he hesitated, 
Mr. Barrett hastily added : " Of course I shall merely 
say ' How do you do/ and express my sympathy, since 
I know something about neuralgia myself — that's all." 

Upon which they turned back, and Mr. Harriott ush- 
ered the unexpected, the spick-and-span caller into my 
presence, with the reassuring word : " Mr. Barrett is 
sparing a moment or two of his time, Clara, to express 
his sympathy for you." 

When a woman knows she is an " object," words of 
welcome for the unexpected visitor are apt to come halt- 
ingly from the tongue, and that I was an "object" no 
one can deny. A loose, pink dressing-gown was bad, a 
knit white shawl huddled about the shoulders was worse, 
but, oh, worst of all, my hair was all scrambled up to 
the top of my head (hair was dressed low then), and a 
broad handkerchief bandage concealed from the eye, but 
not from the nose, the presence of a remedial poultice of 
flour and brandy. 

Truly it is such acts as this that brings many a well- 
meaning but apparently demented husband into the di- 
vorce court. Now any friend, relative, or servant would 
have bravely but politely prevaricated to the last gasp 
rather than have admitted a caller to me in that state, 
but husbands have no discretion, husbands have no — 
well, that's too large a contract, so I'll keep to that call. 

I was aghast for a moment, but the warm pressure of 
Mr. Barrett's hand, his brightening eye gave me such 
an impression of sincerity in his pleased greeting that I' 
forgot I was an " object," and asked him to sit down 



MR. BARRETTS AFTERNOON CALL 219 

for a chat, as eagerly as though I had had all my war- 
paint on. 

We were soon exchanging memories of the past, and 
Mr. Harriott, having a business engagement ahead, ex- 
cused himself and withdrew. Mr. Barrett, calling after 
him: " I'll join you in a moment," resumed his conver- 
sation. There still stood on the table a pot of tea and a 
plate holding two pieces of toast. They had been meant 
for my lunch, but neuralgia had the call, and lunch had 
been ignored ; so, as we talked on and on, presently Mr. 
Barrett, seeing my bandage sliding down over my eyes, 
rose, and, without pausing in his rapid description of a 
certain picture he had seen abroad in its creator's studio, 
he passed behind me, tightened the knot of the handker- 
chief, put the sofa-pillow behind my head, a stool under 
my feet, and resumed his seat. 

Then I talked and talked, and grew excited, then 
thirsty. I drew the tray nearer and poured out a cup 
of tea. 

" Give me some," said Mr. Barrett, who was now tell- 
ing me about a sitting of Parliament in London. 

" Let me order some that's fresh," I replied. 

" No, no ! " he cried, impatiently, " that will be such 
an interruption — no, no ! " 

I gave him then a cup of cold tea. Presently I broke 
off a bit of the stiff and repellant toast, with its chilled, 
pale gleam of butter, and nibbled it. His hand went 
forth and broke off a bit also. We were on a new poem 
then, and Mr. Barrett seemed thrilling to his finger-tips 
with the delight of it. He repeated lines; I questioned 
his reading; we experimented, placing emphasis first on 
this word, then on that. We generally agreed, but we 
came an awful cropper over Gladstone. 

How fiercely we clashed over the grand old man those 
who knew Mr. Barrett will guess from the fact that dur- 
ing the fray he excitedly undid two buttons of his tight 
frock-coat. The ends of his white silk muffler now hung 
down his back, fluttering when he moved like a small 



220 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

pair of white wings. I have a recollection, too, of his 
rising, and, apparently unconscious of his act, lighting 
the gas, while he passionately demanded of me the rea- 
son why Dickens could not create a real woman. 

At last we came up hard and fast against Hamlet. 
The air was thick with stories. Part of the time we 
talked together in our eagerness. Mr. Barrett's coat was 
quite unbuttoned ; the curl on his wide brow had grown 
as frizzly as any common curl might grow. Two round, 
red spots spread over his high cheek-bones, his eyes were 
hungrily glowing; he had just taken a long breath and 
made a start on an audience with the Pope, when Mr. 
Harriott entered and said : " I beg your pardon, Mr. 
Barrett, there's a man outside who is very anxiously 
inquiring for you." 

" For me ? " exclaimed Mr. Barrett, with astonish- 
ment, " that's rather impertinent, it seems to me ! " 

Suddenly he noticed the gas-light. He started vio- 
lently, he pulled out his watch, then sprang to his feet, 
crying : " Good God ! Harriott, that's my dresser look- 
ing for me — I ought to be in my dressing-room. What 
will Mr. Booth think has become of me, and what, in 
heaven's name, do you think of me ? " 

He hastily buttoned himself into rigidity, rescued the 
flying ends of his muffler, and holding my hands for a 
moment, he laughed : " You are not only ' just Clara/ 
but you are the only Clara that would make me so utterly 
forgetful of all rules of etiquette. Forgive, and good- 
by ! " and he made an astonishingly hasty exit. 

That " call," that lasted from one till seven, with the 
accompanying picture of the stately Lawrence Barrett 
drinking cold tea and eating stiff cold toast, while he 
talked brilliantly of all things under heaven, is one of my 
quaintest t memories. 

One loves to think of those years of his close relations 
with Mr. Booth. Artistically, the combination was an 
ideal one; commercially, it was a most successful one; 
while it certainly brought out qualities of gentleness 



BOOTH AND BARRETT 221 

and devotion in Mr. Barrett that the public had not ac- 
credited him with. 

The position of manager and co-star was a difficult 
one, and only Barrett's loving comprehension of Booth's 
peculiarities, as well as his greatness, made that position 
tenable. Mr. Booth loathed business details; he was 
sorrowful and weary; he had tasted all the sweets the 
world had to offer, but only their under tang of bitter- 
ness was left upon his lips. He had grown coldly indif- 
ferent to the call of the public, but Mr. Barrett believed 
that under this ash of lassitude there still glowed the 
clear fire of genius, and when they went forth to try 
their great experiment, Mr. Booth found himself re- 
spected, honored, guarded as any woman might have 
been. He was asked no questions about scene or scenery, 
about play or percentage — his privacy and peace were 
ever of the first consideration. Mr. Barrett was his 
agent, manager, stage-manager, friend, co-worker, and 
dramatic guardian angel — all he asked of him in re- 
turn was to act. 

And how splendidly Mr. Booth responded the public 
can well remember. As he said laughingly to a friend, 
at the end of the first season : " Good work, eh ? well, 
why should I not do good work, after all Barrett has 
done for me. Why, I never knew what c-o-m-f-o-r-t 
spelled before. I arrive — someone says : ' Here's your 
room, Mr. Booth.' I go in and smoke. At night, some- 
one says : ' Here's your dressing-room, sir/ and I go in 
and dress, yes, and smoke, and then act. That's all, ab- 
solutely all that I have to do, except to put out my hand 
and take my surprisingly big share of the receipts now 
and then. Good work, eh? well, I'll give him the best 
that's in me, he deserves it." 

And in the beautiful friendship that grew up between 
the melancholy, gentle Booth and the nervously energetic 
Barrett I believe each gave to the other the best that 
w r as in him. 

Before leaving the Barretts I should like to mention 



222 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

an odd happening connected with Joe and my visit to 
New Orleans, where the theatre was under the manage- 
ment of Lawrence Barrett and Mr. Rogers. The com- 
pany had taken for me one of those quick likings peculiar 
to our people; principally, I think, because being a 
temporary star (by the grace of Mr. Daly's will) they 
had expected me to be haughtily dictatorial, instead of 
shy to the point of misery, and because of their mistake 
they treated me like a long-sought sister, instead of the 
stranger I was. 

They publicly presented me with a gift on my last 
night, and almost in a body saw my mother and myself 
off on our Sunday night start for home. Everyone had 
left the car but big, hearty Joe Barrett — he still clung 
silently to my hands, though my mother begged him to 
go before he met with an injury. The train was out of 
the depot — the speed increasing rapidly, before he 
dropped off, safely landing just beneath a light, high 
above his head. His hat was off, his empty hand held 
out toward me, and in that light his face was as the face 
of the sorrowful dead. It chilled me, all my high spirits 
flattened down suddenly ; I turned, and said : " Did you 
see, mother ? " and she answered : " It was the light, and 
his unhappiness, that made him look so like a — so sad," 
so I knew she had seen him as I had. 

Our journey was saddened by an accident, and when 
the train backed to take up the creature it had crushed, 
not knowing what had happened, by chance I glanced 
down from the window, full into the face of the victim 
as they bore him past. He had been a large, broad- 
shouldered man, and the still, white face was so like Bar- 
rett's that I almost fainted. Everyone in the car seemed 
to feel some measure of culpability for the mishap ; and 
at every unusual jolt or jar we looked with frightened 
eyes from the windows, dreading lest another stretcher 
might be borne into view. At last we were at home, and 
in work I regained my usual spirits. 

A few weeks, three or four, had passed. One morn- 



JOE BARRETTS LAMENT 223 

ing I awakened myself from a dreamless sleep by my 
own singing. I faced the blank wall. I smiled sleepily 
at the absurdity of the thing, then I grew more awake, 
and as I sang on, I said to myself : " What is it — why, 
what can it be, that I am singing?" 

There were no words to this mournful, heart-breaking 
air, that ended with a wail, long and weird. 

" Mother," I called, the door being open between our 
rooms, " Mother, did you hear me singing just now? " 

" Well, yes," she replied, " since I am not deaf, I heard 
you very plainly." 

" Oh," I cried, " can you tell me what it was I sang? " 

My mother raised her head and looked in at me sur- 
prisedly : " Why, what is the matter with you, child — 
aren't you awake, that you don't know what you are 
doing ? You were singing ' the lament ' Joe Barrett 
sang in the French cemetery." 

" Oh ! " I cried, in late-coming recognition, " you are 
right." I scrambled up, and thrusting back my hair from 
my face, started to sing it again, and lo ! not a note could 
I catch. Again and again I tried; I shut my eyes and 
strove to recall that wail — no use. Then, remembering 
what a memory my mother had for airs heard but once 
or twice, I called : " Dear, can't you start ' the lament ' 
for me, I have lost it entirely ? " 

She opened her lips, paused, looked surprised, then 
said, positively : "I might never have heard it, I can't 
get either its beginning or ending." 

I sprang from the bed, and in bare, unslippered feet, 
ran to the piano in the front room — no use; I never 
again heard, waking or sleeping, another note of "the 
lament." 

Mother called out presently : " Do you know what time 
it is? Go back and finish your sleep, it's not quite six 
o'clock." 

As I obediently returned to my room, I said, in a 
troubled voice : " What do you suppose it means, moth- 
er ? " and as she snuggled her head back upon her pillow, 



224 LIFE °N THE STAGE 

she laughingly answered : " Oh, I suppose it's a sign 
you are going to hear from Joe Barrett soon. If you 
do, I hope it won't be anything bad, poor fellow ! " for 
mother liked the " big Irish boy," as she called him. 

I fell asleep again, but was up and ready at nine for 
our rather- foreign breakfast of coffee, rolls, and salad. 
Now in our partnership mother was mistress of the house, 
and I, doing the outside work, being the wage-winner, 
was the man of the house, and as such had the master's 
inalienable right to the morning paper with my coffee. 
That the mistress occasionally peeped at the headlines 
before the master rose was a fact judiciously ignored by 
both, so long as the paper was ever found neatly folded 
beside the waiting coffee-cup. Imagine then my surprise 
when, coming into the room, I found my mother sitting at 
table with the badge of authority in her own hands, and 
my cup standing shorn of all its dignity. She avoided my 
eye, and hastily pouring coffee, said : " Drink it while 
it's hot, dear, and — and I'll just glance at the paper a 
moment." 

I sat back and stared, and I was just beginning to 
laugh at our small comedy when I discovered that 
mother, she of the rock-steady nerves, was trembling. 
Without looking up, she said again : " Drink your cof- 
fee — I'll give you the paper presently." 

I sipped a little and watched. She was not reading a 
line. I put down the cup. " Mother," said I, " is there 
anything in that paper that will interest me ? " 

She looked up hastily : " Drink your coffee, and 
I'll " 

"Is there?" I broke in. 

Tears rose in her eyes. " Y-y-yes," she stammered, 
" there is something here that will interest — rather that 
will grieve you, but if you would please take youp 
coffee ! " 

I caught up the cup and emptied it at a draught, then 
held out my hand. Mother gave me the paper and left 
the room ; as her first sob reached my ear, I read : " Sud- 



THE DEATH OF POOR JOE 225 

den death of the actor, Joseph Barrett." I sat staring 
stupidly, and before I saw another word there came to 
my ears the shivering of leaves, and a grave voice, say- 
ing : " It is a message from the dying or — the dead — 
believe that." 

"What," I asked, dully, "what is a message?" and 
then the blood chilled at my heart as I recalled " the 
lament," Joe had said : " It is a message from the dying 
— or the dead." 

After rehearsal, Mr. Daly wished to see me in his bit 
of a staircase-office in front of the house. He desired 
help in deciding about several scenes he meant to have 
built from old engravings. Suddenly he came to a stand- 
still. " What's the matter with you? " he cried; " where 
are your splendid spirits ? you have been absent and heavy 
all morning — what's the matter?" 

" Oh, nothing much," I began, when he angrily inter- 
rupted : " For heaven's sake, spare me that senseless an- 
swer. If you won't tell me, say so. Refuse me your 
confidence, if you choose, but don't treat me as though 
I were a fool by saying nothing, when you look as if 
you'd seen a ghost ! " 

" Oh, don't ! " I cried, and astonished my irate man- 
ager by bursting into tears. He instantly became gentle, 
and forcing a thimbleful of Chartreuse (which I loath) 
upon me, he once more asked what was the matter. 

And then I told him of the dying emigrant — of Joe's 
feeling for me — of the singing of " the lament," and 
at Joe's words : " It's a message from the dying, or the 
dead." 

Mr. Daly's fingers trembled like aspen leaves, his eyes 
dilated to perfect blackness, and almost he whispered the 
words: "Well, child — well?" 

I told of the song, begun in sleep, continued in wake- 
fulness to its wailing end, and then lost — utterly lost! 
And leaning his pale face eagerly toward me, Mr. Daly 
exclaimed : " He proved his words, good God ! don't 
you see that — that air was his message to you ? a mes- 



226 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

sage from the dying or the dead ! " his fingers nervously 
sought the little amulet he wore. 

" But," I objected, " he had been dead many hours 
before the song came to me? " 

When, with the utmost conviction, he instantly an- 
swered : " Think how far you were asunder — what a 
distance he had to come to you ! " 

Being a very practical young person, a smile was ris- 
ing to my lips, but a glance into his earnest eyes, that 
had become strange and mystic, checked it. 

" I shall tell Father D — y of this," he said, half to him- 
self, then, looking at me, he added : " The man loved you 
greatly, whatever he may have been, for you have re- 
ceived his message — whether it came from the man 
dying or the man dead. Go home, child; never mind 
about the scenes to-day — go home ! " 

And with that weird idea firmly fixed in his mind, he 
dismissed me. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH 

I accept an Engagement with Mr. Macaulay for Cincin- 
nati as Leading Lady — My Adieus to Cleveland — Mr. 
Ellsler Presents Me with a Watch. 

A FTER years of weary waiting, years of patient 
/X work, 1 had reached the position of juvenile 
I V leads de jure, but of general hack de facto, and 
then, lacking as my character was in the element of 
" push," even / could see plainly that I was throwing 
away myself and my chances in life by remaining in a 
position where I faced the sign of " No thoroughfare." 

That Mrs. Ellsler would retain the leading business 
while her husband retained a theatre was certain. I knew 
positively that some of Cleveland's leading business men, 
sturdy supporters of the theatre, rinding that their mildly 
expressed dissatisfaction with the make-up of the com- 
pany was ignored, had written and plainly asked for a 
change, just as Mr. Ellsler, every two years, changed the 
comedian, leading man, etc., etc. They declared that his 
business would double in consequence; and this was 
submitted with the kindliest intentions and no wish to 
wound anyone, etc., and they were, with great respect — 
various business men. 

At all events, when the letter had produced embar- 
rassed discomfort in one quarter and fierce anger in an- 
other, it became inactive. I rightly judged that the " No 
thoroughfare " sign was permanent — there was no fur- 
ther advancement possible in that theatre; therefore I 
rejoiced greatly when I had an engagement offered me, 
even though, for reasons touching the reputation of the 
manager who wrote, I refused it — still an offer of lead- 
ing business heartened me, and I felt gratefully sure some 

227 



228 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

star had spoken a kind word in my behalf. There was 
so much hanging upon that possible engagement, too; 
it meant more than advancement professionally, more 
than gratified ambition. Never yet had I been able to 
go beyond the taking care of myself and lending a help- 
ing hand in sickness to my mother; while, to my un- 
sleeping distress, my bitter mortification, she had still 
to work. We were still apart, save for my regular weekly 
visit, and such a small increase in salary would have 
made it possible for us to live together, after a manner, 
in a very small way, but we would rather have been half 
alive and together than have thrilled with superabundant 
vitality while separated. 

As my services had never seemed to be regarded seri- 
ously by anyone but the star of the especial occasion, I 
was not utterly taken aback when I found my intention of 
stepping bravely out into the big world received with 
surprise and cold disapproval. Really, I was almost con- 
vinced that I had still the very a-b-abs of my business 
yet to learn, that I was rash and headstrong and all 
puffed up with strange, unseemly vanity; but just as I 
was sinking back to that " old-slipper " state of mind de- 
sired, a letter came from the well-known, thoroughly 
established actor-manager, Mr. Barney Macaulay, who 
offered me the leading business at Wood's Museum, 
Cincinnati, O. 

The salary was very small, but I understood perfectly 
that any manager would offer as small a salary to any 
actress whose first season it was as leading woman. 

Oh, my! oh, my! but there followed a period of 
scant sunshine, of hot argument, of cold and cautious 
advice, of terrifying hints of lacking qualities. Want of 
dignity, of power, of authority! The managerial forces 
were winning all along the line of argument, when, like 
many another combatant who faces annihilation, I took 
a desperate chance ; I called up every dissatisfied speech 
of my absent mother, every complaint, regret, reproach, 
every word of disappointment, of vexation, of urging, 



I LEAVE MR. ELLSLER 229 

of goading, of stern command, and arming these words 
with parental authority I mounted them upon a mother's 
fierce wrath, and thus, as cavalry, recklessly hurled them 
at full charge upon the enemy's line. I had no infantry 
of proof to support my cavalry's move, it was sheer des- 
peration; but Fortune is a fickle jade, she sprang sud- 
denly to my side. The managerial lines broke before 
the mother's charge, and before he had them reformed 
I had written Mr. Macaulay that I was ready to con- 
sider to accept the offered engagement, if, etc., etc., and 
then put on my hat and jacket and went forth and 
cleverly showed, first the offered engagement to arouse 
my victimized parent's hopes, then descanted upon the 
opposition offered to my acceptance of it, and when she 
was warmed with indignation I confessed to using her 
as my principal weapon — even admitted making up 
some speeches, and being hot and pleased, indignant and 
proud, she forgave me, and I bit my lips hard to keep 
silence about a great hope that she might possibly go 
with me to that new engagement; but, to spare her a 
possible disappointment, I held my peace. 

Later, when everything was seemingly settled and only 
the contract left to sign, came the amazing suggestion 
from Mr. Macaulay, that, because of my youth, I would 
undoubtedly be perfectly willing to let him reserve a few 
heavy parts for his wife's acting. It is quite needless for 
me to explain that the few parts to be reserved were the 
choicest of the legitimate drama. And then an amusing 
thing came to pass. I, who was so lacking in self-con- 
fidence, so backward and retiring, so easily cast down by 
a look of disapprobation, suddenly developed (on paper) 
an ability to stand up for my rights that was startling. 
By return mail I informed Mr. Macaulay that my youth 
did not affect me in the manner he anticipated ; that I 
was not willing to resign all those important parts to an- 
other — no matter whose wife that other happened to be. 

A long, argumentative, soothing sort of letter came 
back to me, ending with the positive conviction that I 



230 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

would yield two parts to his wife — great pets of hers 
they were, too, and one of them being Lady Macbeth, I 
would of course be grateful to have it taken off my 
hands, while Julia, in " The Hunchback," had really come 
to be considered, in Cincinnati, as Miss Johnson's special 
property — Miss Rachael Johnson being the stage name 
of Mrs. Macaulay. 

Had he asked two parts in the first place I would have 
granted them, but now my blood was up (on paper, mind 
you), and with swift decision I boldly threw the engage- 
ment up, declaring I would be the leading woman or 
nothing. For, you see, I had been in the frying-pan of 
one family theatre all my dramatic life, and I was not 
willing to throw myself at once into the fire of another 
one. 

The next letter contained a great surprise: a couple 
of signed contracts and a pleasant request for me too 
to sign both and return one immediately. Then the writer 
quite gently regretted my inability to grant his request, 
but closed by expressing his respect for my firmness in 
demanding my rights; and straightway I signed my 
first contract; went out and mailed one copy, and when 
I returned I had made up my mind to take the great 
risk — I had decided that my mother should never again 
receive commands from anyone. That my shoulders 
were strong enough to bear the welcome burden, and 
so we would face the new life and its possible sufferings 
together — together, that was the main thing. 

As I stood before the glass, smoothing my hair, I 
gravely bowed to my reflection, and said : " Accept my 
congratulations and best wishes, ' Wood's leading lady,' " 
and then fell upon the bed and sobbed, as foolish nerve- 
strained women will ; because, you see, the way had been 
so long and sometimes so hard, dear Lord! so hard, 
but by His mercy I had won one goal — I was a leading 
woman ! 

And then began my good-by to the city that I loved. 
I had lived in so many of its streets; I had attended so 



MEMORIES OF CLEVELAND 231 

many of its schools, and still more of its churches. There 
was the great lake, too. I had sailed on it, had been 
wrecked on it, but against that I set the memory of those 
days when, in night-gown bath-dress, I reveled in its 
blue waters on Fourth of July family picnics. 

One church — old Bethel on Water Street — I hated, 
because the Sunday-school superintendent had been a 
hypocrite, and we knew it, and because in every one of 
its library books the good child died at the end, which 
was very discouraging to youthful minds. 

Another church, on Prospect Street, I loved, because 
that Sunday-school teacher had been so gentle and smil- 
ing and had worn such pretty pink flowers in her bonnet. 

Then there was the fountain in the square. I laughed 
as I said good-by to that, recalling the morning when, 
because of a bad throat, I had unobservedly, as I sup- 
posed, swallowed a powder (homoeopathic), and next 
moment heard hurrying footsteps behind me and felt a 
heavy hand on my shoulder, while a rough voice cried: 
" Where's the paper ? what did you do it for ? what's 
your name? say, answer up, now, before it gets hold of 
you — what's your name ? " 

Frightened and bewildered, 'twas with difficulty I con- 
vinced the suspicious policeman that I was not attempt- 
ing suicide by poison, but was trying to cure a sore throat. 
A theatre bill-board was in fair view, and my part in 
the play, which I luckily held rolled in my hand, induced 
him to let me go to rehearsal instead of the station-house ; 
and while the policeman dispersed the crowd his own 
error had gathered, I resolved, as I flew toward the the- 
atre, to take no more powders in public parks — no mat- 
ter how empty they might seem to be. 

And then there was the jail, and as I nodded a good- 
by at its blackened walls I saw again that sunny morning 
when, in greatest haste, I passed that way and observed, 
coming toward me, three men walking very closely, who 
showed no intention of making way for me — which 
made me look at them surprisedly. And then the aston- 



232 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

ishing beauty of the tall, white-clothed central figure 
brought me to a halt. His ruddy features were as severely 
perfect as those stamped on an ancient coin. His glit- 
tering hair and mustache were of that pale and precious 
gold most often seen crowning a baby's head. His fig- 
ure was tall, broad-shouldered, small-waisted, and his 
hands, good God! I whispered, and stopped there, for 
he wore the hand-cuffs, and on either side of him a strong 
and grimy hand gripped his arm. That was why they 
made no room for me; and as I swerved swiftly out 
into the middle of the street to pass them by, there came 
a glitter of bold blue eyes, a flash of white teeth, and a 
deep voice cried back to me : " I'm awfully sorry ; I beg 
your pardon," and then they wheeled inside the iron 
gates, and five minutes later I knew the physically splen- 
did creature I had seen was that Dr. Hughes who had 
just been taken for the murder of his victim (of a mock 
marriage), poor little sixteen-year-old Tamsie Parsons 
— she of the curly head, but steel-firm mouth, who loved 
passionately this God-like devil, yet had the moral cour- 
age to resist him to the death. 

And then the post-office was quite full of memories. 
One made my brow grow moist, even after years had 
passed since the damp autumn day when, as a child, I 
had let fall upon the stone floor a good large bottle of 
benzine. The crushed thing, wrapped nicely in blue 
paper, lay there, innocent to behold, while its escaping 
volatile contents got in some really fine work. First, 
two ladies held their noses, then a fierce old be-whiskered 
man looked about suspiciously, working his offended 
member just as a dog would. Then two men hurrying 
in opposite directions, but with their eyes turned up in- 
quiringly toward the gas-fixture overhead, collided vio- 
lently, and instead of apologizing, each abused the other 
as a blundering idiot, and wrinkling up their noses dis- 
gustedly, unlocked their boxes, and still grumbling went 
their ways, one declaring that the gas being wasted there 
was sufficient to illuminate the whole building. Then 



MINDING HIS PS AND Q'S 233 

doors began to open violently, and pale men in office 
coats of alpaca darted out and ran about, frantically try- 
ing to turn of! gas that was not turned on; and there I 
stood, shivering over the innocent blue package, very wet 
by that time, with my fear of a whipping for breaking 
the bottle losing itself in the greater terror of some swift 
public expiation of my fault. The unknown is always 
terrifying, and I strove in vain to imagine what the pun- 
ishment would be for creating evil odors in a public 
building that brought postal clerks from their work in 
pursuit of them. But the sight of a policeman advancing 
toward the delivery window suddenly set me in motion, 
and with a bound I was out of the door and running 
like mad for a (then) Kinsman Street car. I wonder 
yet if that gas leak was ever properly located. 

Another day I had been sent for an advertised letter, 
and as several grown-ups were ahead of me at the little 
window, I withdrew to lean against the wall and rest a 
bit while waiting, for I had walked far and was very 
tired. And then a very white-haired, white- whiskered, 
white-tied old gentleman entered one of the many doors 
and looked nervously about him ; when, seeing me, he 
brightened up, and at once began to beckon me toward 
him. Always respectfully obedient to the old, I at once 
approached the pink and white chipper old man, who 
nodded, smiled, and patting my head, asked, eagerly: 
" Er — er, do you — can you get letters 1 from the office- 
window yonder? " 

His restless eyes wandered all over the place. " Oh, 
yes, sir," I answered, " I often get them for my mother, 
and for other people, too ! " 

" Quite right, yes, yes, quite right, quite right ! " re- 
sponded the old gentleman, then added, reflectively: " Yes, 
she's a female, but females receive letters, though they 
don't vote, yes, yes ! Well, my child, I want you to help 
me in a great and good work. You know people are taught 
from their earliest infancy the necessity of minding their 
P's and Q's, and that they don't do it ! Now you and I 



234 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

will mind the P's and Q's of this great city, won't we, 
my dear? So, you just go to the window there and get 
all the letters there are for Parker, Purley, Prentiss, and 
Porter, and I'll come after you and get all the letters for 
Pixley, Pratt, Prince, and Pettigrew, and to-morrow, my 
dear, we'll come down and get all the Q's — the Quigley, 
Quinn, and Quiller crowd — and — and we'll take all the 
letters over to the fountain and throw them in the basin 
of water, and if they float we'll pitch bricks at 'em ! Now, 
now's your time, go ahead, and get all the P's you can 
— it's a great scheme, great ! " and then he stopped, 
for an almost breathless voice called out : " Here he is, 
Hank ! confound him ! " And as two men hurried tow- 
ard my chipper old reformer, one said, reproachfully: 
" Now, look-a-here, Mr. Peiffer, if you don't keep your 
word no better nor this, Hank and me'll have to keep 
hold of you on your walks, and you won't like that ! " 

" No," meekly murmured the old man, "I — er — I 
won't like that, I'm sure." 

Then Hank turned to me and asked, suspiciously: 
" Has he been filling you full of P's and Q's? " 

I nodded. " Then," said the other man, " we'd better 
get him back quick, that's the way he begins. Come on, 
now, Mr. PeifTer, come on ! " and between them they led 
away the poor white-haired old madman, who looked 
back as he passed me, and whispered : " Pitch 'em in 
the fountain, I'll get the Q's to-morrow ! " 

There, too, was the old, old grave-yard that the city 
had crept up to, cautiously at first, then finding them 
quite harmless — the quiet dead — had stretched out 
brick and mortar arms and circled it about. A network 
of streets had tangled about it, and turbulent life dashed 
against its very gates on the outside, but inside there was 
a great green silence. 

How well I knew the quiet place — the far, damp cor- 
ner where, in lifting bodies for removal to a new cemetery, 
one had been found petrified; the giant sycamore-tree 
that guarded the grave of a mighty Indian chief, the lonely 



GOOD-BY TO CLEVELAND 235 

hemlock blackened nook where a grave had been cruelly 
robbed, the most expensive tomb, the most beautiful tomb, 
the oldest tomb, I knew them all. But the special attrac- 
tion for me was a plain white headstone that happened to 
bear my own name. Whenever my mother boxed my 
ears, or was too hasty in her judgment to be quite just, 
I went over to my silent city and sat down and looked 
at the tombstone, and thought if it were really mine how 
sorry my mother would feel for what she had done. And 
when I had, in imagination, seen her tears and remorse, 
I would begin to feel sorry for her and to think she was 
punished enough, especially if it was rather late, and the 
shadows of tombstones and trees all fell long upon the 
sunny walks, all pointing like warning black fingers tow- 
ard the gate. Then, indeed, I was apt to forgive my 
mother and flee to her — and supper. 

And so, up and down, smiling and sighing, I went, 
taking conge of the city that had been home to me all 
my life, save just two years. I even paused at the little 
old cottage whose gate was the only one I had ever 
swung on, and I had hated the swinging, but I was six 
and was passionately enamoured of a small person named 
Johnnie, who lived there and who wore blue aprons ; so I 
swung on the gate with him and to please him, and then, 
being like most of his sex, fickle of fancy, he deserted 
me for a new red dress worn by another. And when 
he spilled milk on it (his mother sold milk) and spoiled 
its glory, she scratched his face, and he wanted to re- 
turn to me; but my love was dead, so dead I wouldn't 
even accept sips of milk out of the little pails he had to 
carry around to customers. And, so cruel is life, there 
I stood and laughed as I took leave of the small gate. 

At last all was done, my trunks were gone, I sat in 
my empty room waiting for the carriage. I had to make 
my journey quite alone, since my mother was to join me 
only when I had found a place to settle in. I was very 
sad. Mr. Ellsler was ill, for the first time since I had 
known him, and I had been over to his home, three 



236 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

or four blocks away, and bade good-by to Mrs. Ellsler 
and gentle little Annie — the other children were out. 
And finding I had no fear of contagion from a bad throat, 
she showed me into Mr. Ellsler's room. I was shocked 
to see him so wasted and so weak, and not being used 
to sickness I was frightened about him. Judge, then, 
my amazement, when, hearing a knock on my door and 
calling, " Come in," instead of a bell-boy, there entered, 
pale and almost staggering, Mr. Ellsler. A rim of red 
above his white muffler betrayed the bandaged throat, 
and his poor voice was but a husky whisper. 

" I could not help it," he said ; " you were placed under 
my care once by your mother. You were a child then, 
and though you are pleased to consider yourself a woman 
now, I could not bear to think of your leaving the city, 
at this saddest hour of the day, to begin a lonely journey, 
without some old friend being by for a parting God- 
speed." 

I was inexpressibly grateful, even through all my 
fright at his rashness; but he had yet another surprise 
for me. He said : " I wanted, too, Clara, to make you 
a little present, to give you a keepsake that would last 
long and would remind you daily of — of — er the years 
you have passed in my theatre." 

He drew a small box from his pocket. " A good girl 
and a good actress," he said, " needs and ought to own 
a — "he touched a spring, the box flew open — "a good 
watch," he finished. 

I gave a cry, I could not realize it was for me — I 
could not ! I clasped my hands in admiration instead of 
taking it, so, with his thin, sick man's fingers, he took 
it from its case and dropped it in my lap. I caught it 
then, and " Oh ! " and again " Oh ! " was all that I could 
cry, while I pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it. 

Literally, I could not speak, such an agony of delight 
in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in 
a need supplied, of gratitude tremendous and surprise 
immeasurable were more than I could find words for. 



LEAVING MY FIRST MANAGER 237 

If you are inclined to think this exaggeration, remem- 
ber how poor I was — had always been ; remember, too, 
there were no cheap watches then; this was of the best 
make and had a chain attached as well ; then think how 
great was my need of it for the theatre, day and night, 
and for traveling. By my utter inability to earn such 
a thing measure my joyful surprise at receiving it, a gift. 

It was one of the red-letter days of my life, the day 
I owned a watch. My thanks must have been sadly 
jumbled and broken, but my pride and pleasure made 
Mr. Ellsler laugh, and then the carriage was there, and 
laughter stilled into a silent, close hand-clasp. As I 
opened the door of the dusty old hack, I glanced up and 
saw the first star prick brightly through the evening 
sky. Then the hoarse voice said, " God bless you ! " and 
I had left my first manager. 

As I stepped out of the carriage at the depot, glancing 
up again I saw the sky sown thick with stars, like a field 
of heavenly daisies. I smiled a little at the thought, then 
suddenly drew my watch to see the time, and hurried to 
my train. Thus grateful for a kindly send-off, made 
happy by a gift, I turned my back upon the old, safe life 
and brightly, hopefully faced the new. For I was young, 
and therefore confident; and it is surely for the old 
world's need that God has made youth so. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH 

My first Humiliating Experience in Cincinnati is Followed 
by a Successful Appearance — I Make the Acquaintance 
of the Enthusiastic Navoni. 

IT is a deep humiliation to relate my first experience 
in Cincinnati, but for reasons I set it down. 
A friend of mine, who hailed from Cincinnati and 
who wished to serve me, had said : " One thing I think I 
can do for you, friend Clara, I can save you the weari- 
ness and annoyance of a long search in a strange city 
for board. My wife and I were never so comfortable 
in our lives before as we were at the house of a Mrs. 
Scott. She is a gentlewoman, therefore she never pries, 
never gossips, never ' just runs in a moment,' when you 
want to study a ' part.' Her charges are reasonable, the 
table a little close, perhaps, but the cooking perfect. You 
and your mother would suit her demands as to regularity 
of habits, quiet conduct, etc., completely, and going there 
so early in September you will stand a good chance of 
securing a room. Try for ' ours ' — it was so sunny and 
bright." And I, delighted at such a prospect, looked 
upon my letter of introduction as a very valuable docu- 
ment — a sort of character from my last place, and early 
on Monday morning went forth from my temporarily 
sheltering hotel to find Mrs. Scott and beg her to take 
me in on the word of her boarders of a year ago. 

I found the house easily, but, modest as was its ex- 
terior, its rich interior sent my heart down rapidly — 
it was going to be away beyond my salary I decided. 
Yet after a, to me, most bewildering interview, I found 
myself inspecting the big sunny room, and shrinking at 
the thought of my rough trunks coming in contact with 

238 



A STRANGE BOARDING PLACE 239 

such a handsome carpet. Mrs. Scott had remarked, 
casually, that she had put her earnings back on the house, 
as a pure matter of business, and I was radiant when she 
named her price for the room, and hastily engaging it, 
I started out at once to order my trunks taken there and 
to telegraph mother to come. 

As I descended the steps I could not help humming 
a little tune. A policeman strolled across the street 
toward me, and I had a hazy notion that he had been 
there when I went in. As I reached the pavement he 
stepped up, and holding out to me a handkerchief, pal- 
pably his own, asked, while looking at me closely, if it 
was mine. 

I was indignant, and I answered, sharply : " It is not 
mine — as you very well know ! " 

He laughed rather sheepishly, and said : " Well, you 
are not stupid, if you are innocent," then asked : " Are 
you a stranger here ? " 

I turned back toward the house I had just left, then 
paused as I said, angrily : " I have a mind to go back 
and ask Mrs. Scott to come out with me to protect me 
from the impertinence of the police ! " 

" Who ? " he asked, with wide-open, wondering eyes, 
" you will go back to who ? " 

" To Mrs. Scott," I snapped. 

" Why," said he, " there's no Mrs. Scott there." 

"No?" I questioned satirically. "No? Well, as I 
have just engaged board from Mrs. Scott, I venture to 
differ with you." 

" Good Lord, Miss," the man said, " Mrs. William 
Scott's been dead these nine months or more. That's 
no place for honest people now. Why — why, we're 
watchin' the house this moment, hoping to catch that 
woman's jail-bird son, who has broken jail in Louisville 
— don't look so white, Miss ! " 

" But — but," I whispered, "I — I was sent here by a 
friend — I — I have engaged a room there ! Oh, what 
shall I do?" 



240 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" That's all right, Miss," reassuringly answered the 
policeman, " I'll give up the room for you. You ain't 
the only one that has come here expecting to find Mrs. 
Scott in the house. You don't need to go back to the 
door ; " and the theatre being in full view, in an agony 
of humiliation and terror, I flung myself into its friendly, 
just-opened office, where Mr. Macaulay presently found 
me shaking like a leaf and almost unable to make plain 
my experience. 

He was furious, and finding my name was mentioned 
in the letter of introduction to Mrs. Scott, and that " Mrs. 
Scott " had retained it, he called the policeman and to- 
gether they went to the house and demanded the letter 
back. It was given up, but most unwillingly, as the 
woman, with the superstition of all gambling people, 
looked upon it as a luck-breeder, a mascot; and an hour 
later, by Mr. Macaulay's aid, I had found two wee rooms, 
whose carpets would welcome my trunks as hiders of 
holes — rooms that were dull, even dingy, but had never- 
theless securely sheltered honest poverty for long years 
past, and could do as much for years to come. 

I mention this unpleasant incident simply to show how 
utterly unexpected are some of the pitfalls that make 
dangerous the pathway of honest girlhood. To show, 
too, that utter ignorance of evil is in itself a danger. 
The interview that bewildered me would have been, for 
instance, a danger signal to my mother, who would, too, 
having seen how the richness of furniture contradicted 
outside shabbiness, have had her suspicions aroused. I 
noted that fact, but not knowing of gambling being un- 
lawful and secretly carried on, my observation was of 
no service to me, as it suggested nothing. Ignorance of 
the existence of evil may sometimes become the active 
foe of innocence. 

No one learned of the unpleasant experience, so I 
was spared disagreeable comment; and, sending for my 
mother to join me, I devoted myself to preparations of 
my opening night. 



IN CINCINNATI 241 

The meeting with strangers, which I had greatly 
dreaded, passed off so easily, even so pleasantly, as to 
surprise me. Everyone offered a kind word of greeting, 
and all the women expressed their sympathy because I 
had to open in so poorly dressed a part. That troubled 
me very little, however. 

The character was that of a country girl (Cicely) in 
some old comedy, whose name I have forgotten. She 
wore just one gown — a black and white print, as she 
was in mourning for her old, farmer father. A rustic 
wench, a milk-maid come up to " Lun'un-town," she 
had one speech that was a trial for any woman to have 
to speak. It was not as brutally expressed as are many 
of the speeches given to rustics in the old English com- 
edies — but it was the double- entendre that made it 
coarse. 

Some of the ladies were speaking with me of the mat- 
ter, and the " old woman " suggested that I just mumble 
the words. I said I could not well do that, as it was a 
part of the principal scene of the play. 

" Well," declared another, " I should hang my head 
and let the house see that I was ashamed of the speech." 

I said nothing, but I thought that would be a most 
inartistic breaking away from the part of the rustic 
Cicely, and a dragging in of scandalized Miss Morris. 

The girl was supposed to make the speech through 
blundering ignorance, she alone not seeing its signifi- 
cance; and to my idea there was but one way to deliver 
it, and that certainly was not with a hanging head and 
shamefaced manner, thus showing perfect, if disapprov- 
ing, knowledge of its double meaning. 

When the opening night came a pleasant little thing 
happened to me. As I entered with straw hat tied under 
chin and bundle in hand, I received a modest little recep- 
tion, what would about equal the slight raising of a hat 
in passing a woman in a corridor; but the moment I 
had spoken the first insignificant speech the house gave 
me as hearty a greeting as any leading woman could 
wish for. 



242 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I was startled and much confused for a few moments, 
but very pleased and grateful withal, yet when I came 
off, Mr. Macaulay's pleasure seemed twice as great as 
mine, and as I laughingly told him so, he said : " Well, 
now I'm going to make a confession. Your letters gave 
me an impression of — of — well, you are entirely un- 
like your letters — you are smaller, and you look even 
younger than you really are. There isn't the very faint- 
est suggestion of the actress in your manner, and — and 
— to be honest, I was a bit frightened over the engage- 
ment I had made. Then your having to open in this in- 
significant part was against you. But they are no fools 
out there, my girl. They have found you out already. 
Your eyes and voice alone won that welcome, and I'd 
not be afraid to wager something now that the last cur- 
tain falls to-night upon a new favorite." 

I was greatly pleased, but those broad lines were still 
hanging over me, still disturbing me. 

At last the scene arrived. I gave the inquiring speech, 
with its wretched double meaning, clearly and plainly, 
looking squarely and honestly into the eyes of the person 
I addressed — the result was described as follows by a 
morning paper: 

" That one speech proved the newcomer an actress of 
superior quality. Clearly and simply given, the great 
guffaw that instantly responded to the double-entendre 
had scarcely risen, when the girl's perfect honesty, her 
wide-eyed innocence, so impressed the audience that ap- 
plause broke from every part of the house. It was the 
most dramatic moment of the evening, for that outburst 
was not merely approbation for the actress, it was homage 
to the woman." 

So it came to pass that Mr. Macaulay's words came 
true — the curtain fell upon a favorite, by grace of the 
warm and kindly hearts of the Cincinnatians, who were 
quick to see merits and ever ready to forgive errors. 

The Hebrew citizens, who are enthusiastic and most 
generous patrons of the theatre, became especially fond 



MY MUSIC LESSONS 243 

of me, so much so indeed that the company christened 
mc " Rebecca," in jesting allusion to their favor, of which 
I was nevertheless very proud, for better judges of mat- 
ters theatrical it would be hard to find. 

When my mother arrived, we settled down in our lit- 
tle rooms, where my trunks, which had to be opened 
every day for the nightly change of costume, had to 
stand one on top of another in order to make room for 
an old battle-scarred piano that I had hired. 

I do not know its maker's name — no one knows — 
which was well for that person, because his act in con- 
structing such a thing placed him in the criminal classes. 
It seemed to be a cross between a coffin and a billiard- 
table, and there was just enough left of its rubber cover 
to make an evil smell in the room. 

Had it not been for the generosity of the leader of the 
orchestra (Mr. Navoni) I could not have enjoyed the 
luxury of even a few music lessons, but he saw my will- 
ingness to learn — to practise when possible, and loving 
music rapturously himself, he took a generous delight 
in helping others to the knowledge he had such a store 
of. Therefore, for a ridiculously small price, just enough, 
he said, to properly mark our relations as master and 
pupil, he introduced me to my notes and lines and ledger- 
lines, too (confound them!), and accidentals and sharps 
(which I hated) and flats (which I liked), and I devel- 
oped a great affection for c, because I could always find 
it, while I hate a to this hour because of the trouble it 
gave me so long ago. 

One thing I am sure of, had anyone awakened me sud- 
denly from a deep sleep at that time I would instantly 
have exclaimed : " One and two and three an d." Mr. 
Navoni and his wife had the room directly over ours; 
of course I knew every loud sound we made must pene- 
trate to his room, and as I could conceive of nothing 
more maddening than to have to listen to a beginner's 
one, two, three — one, two, three, I tried to practise when 
he was out, which was difficult, as our hours were the 



244 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

same. Then one day, knowing he was composing a 
march for a special occasion, I closed the piano and de- 
termined I would not disturb him with any noise of mine. 

Upstairs, then, Mr. Navoni sat, rumpled as to hair, 
fiery as to eye, with violin on table and pen in hand. He 
hummed a little, tried one or two bars on the violin, then 
savagely threw a few notes of ink on to his ruled paper. 
Then he hummed a little, and seemed to listen, jotted 
down a note or two, listened attentively, and then burst 
out : " Do you hear a sound of practice from Miss Mor- 
ris's room ? " 

" No, dear," gently replied Mrs. Navoni, " she doesn't 
want to disturb you at your work, she " 

But a burst of wrath stopped her. Mr. Navoni was 
clattering downstairs and pounding on our door : " What 
does this mean? Get you to that devilish bad piano and 
do your scales — scales, mind you — let the exercises 
wait till the last! Interrupt me? Love I not music! 
nothing is sweeter to me than the ' one, two, three ' of 
the beginner — if the beginner is not a fool — if the be- 
ginner counts the ' one, two, three ' correctly ! Damn ! 
yes, I say damn! look at the time lost! afraid to disturb 
me? How the devil am I to compose that march they 
want with this room still as the dead? Now I go back, 
and if you don't do those scales, all smooth and even, 
and the exercises rightly timed, you — well, you know 
what you'll get! I can hear, even if I am composing. 
So you get to work, quick now! before I get back to 
my table ! " 

And he tore off again, while, with clammy fingers, I 
sat down to the wretched old piano, that was showing 
its teeth at me in a senile grin, and feebly and uncertainly 
began to wobble up and down the keyboard. 

Mrs. Navoni afterward told me that when her husband 
returned to his work he hummed to himself a few mo- 
ments, jotted down a few notes, listened to the sound of 
the rattling old piano, and, smiling and nodding, re- 
marked : " Now I can do something — one, two, three 



KEEPING TIME 245 

— one, two, three — that's right. I couldn't compose a 
bar with her wasting a precious hour down there. She 
keeps good time, eh, doesn't she? Now I'll give the boys 
something that will move their feet for them ! " and he 
returned to the march. 

The thing which I was to get if I failed to practise 
correctly was so unusual that I feel I must explain it. 
Mr. Navoni wore an artificial foot and leg of the cum- 
brous type then offered to the afflicted, and in the privacy 
of his own room he used to remove the burdensome thing 
and lay it on a chair by the couch on which he rested or 
read or wrote, and when I, down-stairs, made a first mis- 
take in my practice, he growled and kicked viciously with 
his " for-true " leg, while a second blunder would make 
him seize his store-leg and pound the floor. Then when I 
began again he would whack the correct time with it with 
such emphasis that bits of my ceiling would come rattling 
down about me and the gas-fixture threatened not to re- 
main a fixture. 

Another trick of his was to bring down his violin with 
him. How my heart sank when I saw it, and, my lesson 
over, he requested me to play such or such an exercise: 
" And keep to your own business, and leave my business 
to me, if you please, Miss. Now!" 

I was then expected to go over and over that exercise 
and keep perfect time, while he stood behind me and im- 
provised on the violin, growing more and more distract- 
ing every moment, and if that led my attention away 
from my one, two, three, what a crack I got across the 
top of my ear from his fiddle-bow r , and a sharp order to : 
" Go back — go back ! one, two, three ; one, two, three ! 
Cry by and by, but now play ! One, two, three ! " 

I should have thought myself a hopeless case, and given 
up, had I not one morning overheard him boasting to 
some of the musicians : " That I was a good enough 
leading woman, he supposed, but it was as a piano pupil 
that I really counted for something. Why," he cried, 
" she has the most perfect ear, and such steadiness — a 



246 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

whole band-wagon of instruments turned loose on her 
wouldn't make her lose time ! " 

I smiled and felt of my even then burning ear, but 
still his boast encouraged me to return to my scales, 
which were wofully interrupted by the necessity I ex- 
perienced of clawing up with my nails several old keys 
that were too weak to rise again having once been pressed 
down. 

When Mr. Navoni played, and he came to one of those 
tired-out ivories, he put a damn in the place of the absent 
note, but for obvious reasons I could not do that. But 
Mr. Navoni was an earnest, determined, and enthusiastic 
teacher, and I remember him gratefully and respectfully. 

The widow of the boarding-house differs from the wid- 
ow of the Testament in that the boarding-house widow's 
cruse of oil seems always "just out," and her meal at a 
like low ebb. Neither my mother nor myself were used 
to luxuries ; we expected little, and, truth to tell, we got 
it. To say we were nearly always hungry would be put- 
ting things quite mildly, but we were together! and so 
'twas better to feel a bit " gone " under the belt than to 
be filled to repletion and live apart. 

I worked hard at all times, and five nights out of seven 
I had to study till far on toward morning. The Saturday 
brought me a double performance, and left me a wreck ; 
thus I thought I had a right to a bit of a treat on Sun- 
day; and I can see the important air mother uncon- 
sciously assumed as she went forth on her secret errand 

— secret that no offence might be given to the econom- 
ical landlady. 

When the matinee was over I brought home my per- 
sonal offering for our next day's comfort and pleasure 

— a copy of an illustrated weekly paper and five cents' 
worth of candy, always something hard that would last 
us long while we read. Thus on Saturday night, on the 
sill of the back window, there stood a small can of 
oysters, while in the top drawer rested a box marked 



SUNDAY'S ROUTINE 247 

handkerchiefs, but which held crackers, beside it a folded 
paper, and on top of that the wee package of candy. 

I had a membership at the library on the corner, so 
we had books, too, thank heaven ! I have always been 
a fairly regular church-goer; in Cincinnati the limita- 
tions of my wardrobe would have made me conspicuous. 
I had but one street dress in the world, and constant wear 
in rain or shine made it a very shabby affair. In novels 
the heroine who has but one gown is always so exquis- 
itely gloved and shod, and her veil and neck-wear are so 
immaculately fresh, that no one notices the worn dress ; 
but in real life it's just the gloves and shoes and veils 
and ruffles that cost the most money, yet their absence 
stamps you ill-bred in the eyes of other women. There- 
fore I knew the inside of but one church in Cincin- 
nati, " Christ's Episcopal," and only knew that in the 
spring, when I had fluttered forth in new gown and 
gloves and things ; so Sundays were given over to a late 
breakfast, a little reading in the Bible, a good long reading 
of secular matter, sweetened by candy, a calm acceptance 
(that was puzzling to the Navonis) of a shadowy din- 
ner, a short walk if weather permitted, then, oh, then! 
a locked door, a small tea-pot, a tiny saucepan (we had 
not the bliss of owning a chafing-dish), and presently we 
sat enjoying, to the last spoonful, a hot and delicious 
stew, a pot of tea, that brought to mind many stories and 
made old jokes dance forth with renewed youth, and 
kept us loitering over our small banquet in a quite dis- 
graceful way. Then back to our novels again till bed- 
time, and next day, all fresh and rested, I began my 
" one and two and three and " before breakfast, and thus 
won approval from Navoni and started a new week's 
work under fair auspices. 



CHAPTER THIRTIETH 

New York City is Suggested to Me by Mr. Worthington 
and Mr. Johnson — Mr. Ellsler's Mild Assistance — I 
Journey to New York, and Return to Cincinnati with 
Signed Contract from Mr. Daly. 

TO say I made a success in Cincinnati is the barest 
truth. Almost at once — the third night of the 
season, to be exact — I received my first anony- 
mous gift: a very beautiful and expensive set of jewelry, 
pale-pink corals in combined dead and burnished gold. 
They rested in their satin-lined nest and tempted me. 
The sender wrote : " Show that you forgive my temerity 
by wearing my offering in the third act." 

/ did not wear them in any act, and yet, oh, eternal 
feminine ! I " tried them on " — at least I put one ring 
in my ear and held the pendant against my throat, " just 
to see " how they would have looked, you know. 

Flowers came over the footlights, the like of which I 
had never seen in my life before — great baskets of hot- 
house beauties, some of them costing more than I earned 
in a week. Then one night came a bolder note, with a 
big gold locket. A signature made it possible for me to 
return that gift next morning. 

All that sort of thing was new to me, and, naturally, 
pleasing — yes, because earned approbation pleases one, 
even though it be not quite correctly expressed. It soon 
became whispered about that I sent back all gifts of 
jewelry, and lo! one matinee, with a splendid basket of 
white camelias, fringed about with poinsetta leaves, there 
came a box of French candied fruit. My! what a sen- 
sation it created in the dressing-room. I remember 

248 



AMBITIOUS FRIENDS 249 

some of the ladies (we dressed in one great long room 
there) took bits of peach and of green figs to show their 
friends, while I devoted myself to the cherries and apri- 
cots. That seemed to start a fashion, for candies, in 
dainty boxes, came to me as often as flowers afterward, 
and, to my great pride and pleasure, were often from 
women, and my Saturday five cents' allowance was turned 
over to mother for the banqueting fund — that meant a 
bit of cheese for supper. 

At the time of the season's opening there was a man 
in Cincinnati who was there sorely against his will, a 
wealthy native of the city, a lawyer who would not prac- 
tise, a traveler in distant lands, he had lived mainly for 
his own pleasure and had grown as weary of that occu- 
pation as he could possibly have grown had he practised 
the law. Tired of everything else, he still kept his liking 
for the theatre. Living in New York in the winter, at 
Cape May in the summer, he only came to his old home 
when someone was irritating enough to die and need 
burying in state, or when some lawsuit required his at- 
tention, as in this instance. So, being there, and not 
knowing what else to do, he had gone dully and moodily 
to the theatre, saying to his cousin companion : " I'll 
take a look at Macaulay's new leading lady, and then 
I'll sleep through the rest of the evening comfortably, 
for no one can talk to me here as they do at the hotel " 
— and the country Cicely had appeared, and, to use Mr. 
Worthington's own words: he had sat up straight as a 
ramrod and as wide-awake as a teething baby for the 
rest of the evening. 

Between acts he had made inquiries as to the history 
of the new actress, only to find that, like most happy 
women, she had none. She came from Cleveland, she 
lived three doors away with her mother — that was all. 
On that first night he had said : " Good Lord, Will, 
what is that girl doing out here in the West ? I must see 
her in a better part. What's on to-morrow night? Se- 
cure our seats for the season, that will save a lot of 



2SO LIFE ON THE STAGE 

trouble ; " and incidentally it made a lot of annoyance 
for me. 

Next night I played what actresses call a " dressed 
part," which, in spite of suggestion, does not mean that 
there are parts that are not dressed, only that the char- 
acter wears fine clothes instead of plain ones. It was a 
bright, light comedy part. The audience was enthusi- 
astic, though, of course, I was only supporting the star. 
Then Mr. Worthington exclaimed : " That girl ought 
to be in New York this very moment ! " 

" Do you think so ? " questioned his inseparable. 

" Do I think so? " mocked his cousin. " Yes, I know 
it. I know the theatres foreign — their schools and 
styles, as well as I know the home theatres and their 
actors. I believe I've made a discovery ! " 

A beautiful mass of flowers came to me that night with 
Mr. Worthington's visiting card, without message. The 
third night I played a tearful part; the papers (as the 
women put it) " went on awful," and Mr. Worthington, 
snapping his glasses into their case, said, as he rose : " I 
shall never rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. 
She need clash with no one, need hurt no one, she is 
unlike anyone else, and New York has plenty of room 
for her. I shall make it my business to meet her. some 
way or other, and preach New York until she accepts 
the idea and acts upon it." 

His visit to Cincinnati was prolonged; his young 
cousin, Mr. Will Burnett, thought he was on the high- 
road to crankiness on the subject. Then Mr. Worthing- 
ton discovered we had a common friend in lawyer Egbert 
Johnson, and he was presented in proper form to my 
mother (oh, wise Mr. Worthington), and winning her 
approval by praise of her wonderful chick (where is the 
mother that does not readily believe her goose a swan?), 
she in her turn presented him to me, and for the first 
time I listened to a suggestion of coming to New York. 

To say I was amused at the idea would be putting it 
mildly indeed, for I was tickled to such laughter that 



DREAMS OF NEW YORK 251 

tears came to my eyes. He was annoyed, but I laughed 
on. He waited — I was called upon for some heavy 
tragic parts. He came again — I laughed still. 

" Good heavens! " I cried, " I'm not pretty enough! " 

He said : " You have your eyes and voice and expres- 
sion, and you don't seem to be suffering much here from 
your lack of beauty." 

" N-no," I answered, naively, " you see, all the women 
in this company are rather plain." 

He laughed, but he continued to urge me to try for 
an engagement in New York. 

" I don't know enough," I faltered. 

" You lack polish of manner, perhaps," he admitted, 
" but you will acquire that quickly, while no one can 
acquire your fire and strength and pathos! For God's 
sake, let me do one unselfish act in my life — let me serve 
you in this matter. I will go to the managers in New 
York and speak for you." 

But that offer I curtly declined, asking him how long 
my reputation would remain unassailed if I allowed him 
to act for me. 

In spite of all his praise of my work, I should have 
remained unmoved had Mr. Johnson not joined forces 
with Mr. Worthington, and calmly assured me that he, 
too, knew the New York theatres and actors, and he hon- 
estly believed I had a chance of acceptance by the public, 
if only a manager would give me an opening, for, said 
he : " Worthington is right this time, you really are an 
exceptionally clever girl, so why should you bury your- 
self in small Western cities?" 

" Oh ! " I indignantly cried, " Cleveland and Cincin- 
nati are very big cities, indeed ! " 

" Yes," smiled Mr. Johnson, " but New York is quite 
a bit larger, and besides you would like to be accepted 
by the metropolis of your country, would you not ? " 

And straightway my heart gave a bound, my cheeks 
began^to burn, the leaven was working at last — my am- 
bition was awakened ! I wondered day and night, could 



252 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I act well enough to please New York? I thought not; 
I thought yes! I thought — I thought there could be 
no harm just to ask the managers if they had an open- 
ing. But there my courage failed me — I could not. I 
never had written to a manager in my life, save to an- 
swer a letter. Finally, I wrote to Mr. Ellsler — he knew 
all the New York managers (few then) — and told him 
I was about to ask my first favor at his hands. Would 
he write to one or two managers for me, or give me a 
line of introduction to them? and his unexpected oppo- 
sition to my plans, the cold water he cast upon my warm 
hopes, instead of crushing my spirit utterly, aroused the 
old dogged determination to do what I had undertaken 
to do — make a try for a New York opening ! 

The controversy finally ended in my receipt of a letter 
from Mr. Ellsler informing me he had written to four 
managers, and said what he could for me — which proved 
to be mighty little, as I afterward saw two of the four 
letters, as they were in duplicate, though one was to 
a stranger, one to an acquaintance, and two to friends. 
He simply asked : " If they had an opening for a young 
woman, named Clara Morris, for leading or leading- 
juvenile business." That was all ; not a word of recom- 
mendation for ability or mention of years of thorough 
experience — not even the conventional expression of a 
personal obligation if they were able to consider my ap- 
plication. 

Had I been a manager, and had I received such a 
letter, I know I should have cast it aside, thinking: 
" Oh, that's a duty letter and amounts to nothing. If 
the girl had any recommendations for the position he 
would have said so." Still, some answers were returned, 
though Mr. Wallack ignored his copy. Mr. Jarrett (of 
Jarrett & Palmer) wrote Mr. Ellsler that they were 
bound to spectacular (" Black Crook ") for the year to 
come, and had no earthly use for an actress above a sou- 
brette or a walking lady. Mr. Edwin Booth wrote : " If 
you had only addressed me a few days earlier. I re- 



MR. DALY'S BRIEF REPLY 253 

member well the young woman of whom you speak. I 
have unfortunately " (this last word was crossed out) 
— "I have just closed with Miss Blanche DeBar — old 
Ben is persistent and has great confidence in her, and, 
as I said, I have just closed with her for the coming sea- 
son. With," etc., etc. 

Then there was a wee bit of paper — little, niggly- 
naggly, jetty-black, impishly vindictive-looking writing 
on two short-waisted lines of about eleven words each. 
That was from Mr. Daly, and it snapped out this infor- 
mation : "If you send the young woman to me I will 
willingly consider proposal. Will engage no actress with- 
out seeing her. A. Daly." 

These letters were blithely sent to me by Mr. Ellsler, 
who evidently looked upon the question as closed, but 
that was where we differed. I considered it a question 
just fairly opened. I admit Mr. Daly's calm ordering of 
me from Cincinnati to his office in New York for inspec- 
tion staggered me at first, but there was that line : " I 
will willingly consider the proposal ; " that was all I had 
to trust to ; not much, heaven knows ! " Yet," I argued, 
" he is evidently a man who says much in little ; at all 
events, though the chance is small, it is the only one 
offered, and, if I can stand the expense, I'll go and take 
that chance." 

I would have to obtain leave of absence ; I would have 
to pay a woman for at least two performances, even if 
I got off on Saturday night; I would have to stop one 
night in a hotel at New York, and, oh, dear, oh, dear! 
would I dare to risk so much — to spend all my little 
savings toward the summer vacation for this trip that 
might end disastrously after all ? I read again : " Will 
engage no actress zvithout seeing her." Well, that set- 
tled the matter. Suddenly I seemed to hear my old Irish 
washerwoman saying : " Ah, well ! God niver shuts one 
dure without opening anither ! " I laughed a bit and 
decided to risk my savings — nothing venture, nothing 
win! 



254 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

That very night I asked leave of absence; the time 
was most favorable — I obtained it. I found next day 
an actress to take my place on Monday and Tuesday 
evenings. Then mother and I emptied out our flat and 
old pocket-books. I brought from its secret hiding-place 
the little roll of bills saved for summer's idle time, and 
we put all in a pile. Then I drew out a week's board in 
advance and gave it to mother; drew out enough to pay 
the woman who took my place, and all the rest, to the 
last dollar, was required for the expenses of my solitary 
journey to the great beckoning city by the sea. 

As I closed my pocket-book, I said to myself : " There, 
I have shut one door with my own hand, but I'll trust 
God to open another for me before vacation arrives." 

There's an old saw that gravely states : " It never rains 
but it pours," and surely business opportunities " poured " 
upon me at that time, for in that very week I received 
two offers of engagements, and one of them, had not the 
New York bee been buzzing so loudly in my bonnet, 
would have driven me quite wild with delight. That was 
from Mr. Thomas Maguire, of San Francisco, and the 
salary was to me enormous. One hundred dollars a week 
in gold, a benefit, and no vacation at all, unless I wished 
it. I temporized. I wished to gain time enough to learn 
my fate in New York before deciding. But Mr. Maguire 
was in haste, and as I hurried from the theatre to start 
on my journey, a long envelope was placed in my hands. 
I opened it on the cars, and found signed contracts for 
the leading business at San Francisco, with an extra 
benefit added as an inducement for me to accept. 

So I journeyed onward to tempt Fate, a little forlorn 
and frightened at first, but receiving so many courtesies 
and little kindnesses from my more fortunately placed 
fellow-travelers, that I quite forgot to be either fright- 
ened or forlorn — but was amazed at the beauty of the 
stately river we crossed, whose ripples caught the glow- 
ing color of the sky and broke them into jewels ; and 
beyond that silvery curtain of haze stretched the great 



SEEING MR. DALY 255 

city of my dreams, all circled round and guarded by liv- 
ing waters. 

Then I was ashore again and clambering into the great 
swaying coach of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the conductor 
having told me it was right next door to the theatre. I 
breakfasted, took from my bag a new gray veil, a pair of 
gray gloves, a bit of fresh ruffling, and a needle and thread, 
with which I basted the ruffle into the neck of my gown ; 
put on the veil and gloves, that being all the preparation I 
could make by way of toilet to meet the arbiter of Fate, 
said " Our Father," and coming to " Amen " with a jerk, 
discovered I had not been conscious of the meaning of 
one single word, and whispering with shame, " only lip 
service," remorsefully repeated again, and with absolute 
sincerity, that prayer which expresses so simply, so 
briefly, all our needs, physical and spiritual ; that places 
us at once in the comforting position of a beloved child 
asking with confidence for a father's aid. A prayer 
whose beauty and strength share in the immortality of 
its Divine composer. 

And then I rose and went forth, prepared to accept 
success or defeat, just as the good Lord should will. 

As I passed around the hotel and approached the the- 
atre on Twenty-fourth Street, an enormous upheaval of 
ice blocked the way — ice piled shoulder high in front 
of the theatre door, and on one side of the glittering 
mass stood a long, tall, thin man, as mad as a hornet, 
while on the other side, stolidly, stupidly silent, stood 
a squat Irishman, holding an ice-man's tongs in one hand 
and his shock of red hair in the other. The long, flail- 
like arms of the tall man were in wild motion. In 
righteous wrath he was trying to make the bog-trotter 
understand that the ice was for the hotel, whose storage 
door was but a few feet to his right, when he saw me 
making chamois-like jumps over the blocks of ice trying 
to reach the door. With black-browed courtesy he told 
me to use the second door, that morning, to reach the 
box-office. 



256 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I had, all unconsciously, formed an idea of Mr. Daly, 
and I was looking for a small, dark, very dark, nervously 
irritable man, and was therefore frankly amused at the 
wrath of the long, thin man, whose vest and whose 
trousers could not agree as to the exact location of the 
waist-line, and laughed openly at the ice-scene, winning 
in return as black a scowl as any stage-villain could well 
wear. Then I cheerfully remarked : " I'm looking for 
Mr. Daly; can you tell me where I am likely to find 
him?" 

"You want Mr. Daly?" he repeated. "Who are 
you?" 

" I'll tell Mr. Daly that, please," I answered. 

He smiled and said : " Well, then, tell me — I'm Mr. 
Daly — are you " 

" Yes," I answered, " I'm the girl come out of the 
West, to be inspected. I'm Clara Morris." 

He frowned quickly, though he held out his hand and 
shook mine heartily enough, and asked me to come into 
his office. 

It was a cranny in the wall. It held a very small desk 
and one chair, behind which was a folding stool. As he 
entered, I laughingly said : " I think I'll lean here, I'm 
not used to sitting on the floor," but to my surprise, as 
he brought forth the stool, he curtly replied : " I was 
not going to ask you to sit on the floor," which so amused 
me that I could not resist asking : " Are you from Scot- 
land, by chance, Mr. Daly ? " and he had f rowningly 
said " No ! " before the old, old joke about Scotch density 
came to him. 

Then he said, with severity : " Miss Morris, I'm afraid 
your bump of reverence is not well developed." 

And I laughed and said : " There's a hole there, Mr. 
Daly, and no bump at all," and though the words were 
jestingly spoken, there was truth and to spare in them, 
and there, too, was the cause of all the jolts and jars 
and friction between us in our early days together. Mr. 
Daly was as a god in his wee theatre, and was always 



SIGNING FOR NEW YORK 257 

taken seriously. I knew not gods and took nothing 
under heaven seriously. No wonder we jarred. Every 
word I spoke that morning rubbed Mr. Daly's fur the 
wrong way. I offended him again and again. He 
wished to show me the theatre, and, striking a match, 
lit a wax taper and held it up in the auditorium, at which 
I exclaimed : " Oh, the pretty little match-box ! Why, 
it's just a little toy play-house — is it not?" 

Which vexed him so I was quite crushed for a minute 
or two. One thing only pleased him : I could not tear 
myself away from the pictures, and I praised, rapturously, 
a beautiful velvety-shadowed old engraving. We grew 
quite friendly over that, but when we came to business 
he informed me I was a comedy woman, root and branch. 

" But," I said, " ask Mr. Edwin Booth, or Mr. Daven- 
port, or Mr. Adams ! " 

He waved me down. " I won't ask anyone," he cried ; 
" I never made a mistake in my life. You couldn't speak 
a line of sentiment to save your soul ! " 

" Why, sentiment is my line of business — I play sen- 
timent every week of my life," I protested. 

" Oh, you know what I mean," he said, " you can 
speak and repeat the lines, but you couldn't give a line 
of sentiment naturally to save your life — your forte is 
comedy, pure and simple." 

It all ended in his offer to engage me, but without a 
stated line of business. I must trust to his honor not to 
degrade me by casting me for parts unworthy me. He 
would give me $35 a week (knowing there were two to 
live on it), if I made a favorable impression he would 
double that salary. 

A poor offer — a risky undertaking. I had no one 
to consult with. I had in my pocket the signed contract 
for $100 in gold and two benefits. I must decide now, 
at once. Mr. Daly was filling up a blank contract. 
Thirty-five dollars against $100! "But if you make a 
favorable impression you'll get $70," I thought. And 
why should I not make a favorable impression? Yet, if 



258 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I fail now in New York, I can go West or South, not 
much harmed. If I wait till I am older, and fail, it will 
ruin my life. 

I slipped my hand in my pocket and gave a little fare- 
well tap to the contract for $100. I took the pen; I 
looked hard at him. " There's a heap of trusting being 
asked for in this contract," I remarked. " You won't 
forget your promise about doubling the salary ? " 

" I won't forget anything," he answered. 

I looked at the pen, it was a stub, the first I ever saw ; 
then I said : " That's what makes your writing look so 
villainous. I can't sign with that thing — I'd be ashamed 
to own my signature in court, when we come to the fight 
we're very likely to have before we are through with 
each other." 

He groaned at my levity, but got another pen. I wrote 
Clara Morris twice, shook hands, and went out and back 
to my home — a Western actress with an engagement 
in a New York theatre for the coming season. 



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST 

John Cockerill and our Eccentric Engagement — I Play a 
Summer Season at Halifax — Then to New York, and 
to House-Keeping at Last. 

MR. WORTHINGTON passed out of my life 
after he had done me the service he set out to 
do. It had been an odd notion to step down 
from his carriage, as it were, and point out to a girl, 
struggling along a rough and dusty path, a short cut to 
the fair broad highway of prosperity; but I thank him 
heartily, for without his urging voice, his steadily point- 
ing hand, I should have continued plodding along in the 
dust — heaven knows how long. 

One of the few people I came to know well in Cincin- 
nati was John A. Cockerill. At that time he was the 
city editor on the Enquirer, and my devoted friend. We 
were both young, poor, energetic, ambitious. We ex- 
changed confidences, plans, hopes, and dreams, and were 
as happy as possible so long as we were just plain friends, 
but as soon as sentiment pushed in and an engagement 
was acknowledged between us, we, as the farmer says: 

" Quarrel'd and fit — and scratched and bit — " 

For John was jealous of my profession, which made my 
temper hot, and we were a queer engaged pair. I used 
to say to him: "It's just a question which one of us 
suicides first ! " 

Yet on some days we would forget we were engaged 
and be quite cheerful and happy ; and when I came back 
from New York, I cried: " Congratulate me, John, I've 
got an engagement, so we can't nag each other to death 

259 



260 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

for a year at least ! " and though that gave a lovely open- 
ing for a quarrel he passed it by, congratulating me very 
gently instead, but very sadly, adding : " You are get- 
ting so far ahead of me, dear — and you will learn to 
despise a man who comes toiling always behind you ! " 

A statement that came so dangerously near the truth 
that it threw me into a passion, and we had a battle royal 
then and there. However, we parted in a gale of laugh- 
ter, for as John suddenly discovered he was overstaying 
his intended short visit, he sprang up and grabbed his 
hat and exclaimed : " Well, good-by, Clara, we haven't 
indulged in much sentiment to-day, but," drawing a long, 
satisfied breath, " we've enjoyed a good lusty old row 
all the same ! " 

No wonder we laughed. We were a rare engaged 
couple. Lovers? why Cupid had never even pointed an 
arrow at us for fun! We were chums — good fellows 
in sunny weather ; loyal, active friends in time of trouble, 
and, after I came to New York, and found quarreling at 
length, with pen and ink, too fatiguing, I broke the en- 
gagement, and we were happy ever after — our friend- 
ship always standing firm through the years ; and when, 
in the Herald's interests, he started on that last long 
journey to report upon the Japanese-Chinese War, he 
said to me : "I never understood the meaning of the 
word friendship until that day when you flung all your 
natural caution — your calm good sense aside, and rushed 
through the first cheering message that reached me after 
that awful St. Louis shooting : ' You acted in self-de- 
fence, I know — command any service from your faith- 
ful friend,' that's what you said, over your full name, 
while as yet you knew absolutely nothing. And when 
I realized that, guilty or innocent, you meant to stand 
by me, I — well, you and my blessed mother live in a 
little corner of my heart, just by your two loyal selves." 

And when he left me he carried on either cheek as 
affectionate a kiss as I knew how to put there, and again, 
and for the last time, we parted in a gale of laughter, as 



A SEASON IN HALIFAX 261 

he cried : " You would have seen me in the bottomless 
pit before you would have done that in Cincinnati ! " 

" Oh, well," I replied, " we both preferred quarreling 
to kissing in those days ! " 

" Speak for yourself ! " he laughed, and so we parted 
for all time. 

I had returned to my work in Cincinnati ; had thanked 
the Washington and San Francisco managers for their 
offers of engagements, and was putting in some spare 
moments in worrying about the summer, when (without 
meaning to be irreverent) God opened a door right be- 
fore me. Never, since I had closed a small geography 
at school, had I heard of " Halifax," save as a substitute 
for another place beginning with H, but here, all sud- 
denly, I was invited to Halifax — not sent there in anger, 
for, oh, incredible ! for a four, perhaps six, weeks' summer 
engagement. Was I not happy? Was I not grateful? 
One silver half-dollar did I recklessly give away to the 
Irish washerwoman, who had said : " God niver shuts 
one dure without openin' anither ! " I could not help 
it, and she, being in trouble at the time, declared, with 
hope rising in her tired old eyes, that she would " at 
onct burn a waxen candle before the blissed Virgin ! " 
Poor soul! I hope her loving offering found favor in 
the eyes of the gentle Saint she honored ! 

I had a benefit in Cincinnati before the season closed, 
and so it came about that I was able to get my mother 
a spring gown and bonnet that she might go home in 
proper state to Cleveland for a visit ; while I turned my 
face toward Halifax, the picturesque, to play a summer 
engagement, and then to make my way to New York 
and find a resting-place for my foot in some hotel, while 
I searched for rooms to which my mother might be sum- 
moned, for I had determined I could board no longer. 

If we had rooms we could make a little home in them. 
If we had still to go hungry, we could at least hunger 
after our own fashion, and endure our privations in de- 
cent privacy. So, with plans all made, I landed at Hali- 



262 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

fax and felt a shock of surprise, followed by a pang of 
homesickness, at the first sight of the scarlet splendor 
of the British flag waving against the pale blue sky, when 
instinctively my eyes had looked for the radiant beauty 
of Old Glory. The next thing that impressed me was 
the astonishing number of people who were in mourn- 
ing. Men in shops, in offices, on the streets, were wear- 
ing crepe bands about their left arms, and women, like 
moving pillars of crepe, dotted the walks thickly, dark- 
ened the shops, and gloomed in private carriages. What 
does it mean? I asked. I never before saw so many 
people in black. And one made answer : " Ah, your 
question shows you are a stranger, or you would know 
that there are few well-to-do homes and no business 
house in Halifax that does not mourn for at least one 
victim of that great mystery of the sea, the unexplained 
loss of the City of Boston — that monster steamer, 
crowded with youth and beauty, wealth, power, and 
brains ! " 

I recalled then how, at the most fashionable wedding 
of the year in Cincinnati, the bride and groom had been 
dragged from the just-beginning wedding-breakfast, and 
rushed off at break-neck speed that they might be in time 
for the sailing of the City of Boston, and after her sail- 
ing no word ever came of her. What had been her fate 
no man knew — no man knows to-day. The ocean gave 
no sign, no clew, as it often has done in other disasters. 
It sent back no scrap of wood, of oar, of boat, of mast, 
of life-preserver — nothing, nothing! No fire had been 
sighted by other ships. Had she been in collision with 
an iceberg, been caught in the centre of a tornado, had she 
run upon a derelict, been stricken by lightning, been 
blown up by explosion ? No answer had ever come from 
the mighty bosom of the deep, that will keep its grim 
secret until the awful day when, trembling at God's own 
command, it will give up its dead ! Meantime thousands 
of tender ties were broken. The awful mystery shroud- 
ing the fate of the floating city turned more than one 



NEW FRIENDS 263 

brain, and sent mourners to mad-houses to end their 
ruined lives. Halifax was a very sad city that summer. 

I met in the company there Mr. Leslie Allen (the 
father of Miss Viola Allen), Mr. Dan Maginnis (the 
Boston comedian), and Mr. John W. Norton. The 
future St. Louis manager was then leading man, and the 
friendship we formed while working together through 
those summer weeks was never broken, never clouded, 
but lasted fair and strong up to that very day when, sit- 
ting in the train on his way to New York, John Norton 
had, in that flashing moment of time, put off mortality. 

He had changed greatly from the John Norton of those 
early days. He had known cruel physical suffering, and 
while he had won friends and money, shame and bitter 
sorrow had been brought upon him by another. No won- 
der the laughing brightness had gone out of him. It 
was said that he believed in but two people on earth — 
Mary Anderson and Clara Morris, and he said of them: 
" One is a Catholic, the other an Episcopalian ; they are 
next-door neighbors in religion; they are both honest, 
God-fearing women, and the only ones I bow my head 
to." Oh, poor man! to have grown so bitter! But in 
the Halifax days he loved his kind, and was as full of 
fun as a boy of ten, as full of kindness as would be the 
gentlest woman. 

Mr. Maginnis had his sister-in-law with him, a help- 
less invalid. She knew her days were numbered, yet she 
always faced us smilingly and with pleasant words. She 
was passionately fond of driving, but dreaded lonely out- 
ings; so clubbing together, that no one might feel a 
sense of obligation, we four, Dan and his sister, John 
Norton and I, used evenly to divide the expense of a 
big, comfortable carriage, and go on long, delightful 
drives about the outskirts of the gray old hilly city. 

The stolid publicity of Tommy Atkins's love-making 
had at first covered us with confusion, but we soon grew 
used to the sight of the scarlet sleeve about the willing 
waist in the most public places, while a loving smack, 



264 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

coming from the direction of a park bench, simply be- 
came a sound quite apropos to the situation. 

One yellow-haired, plaided and kilted young High- 
lander, whom I came upon in a public garden, just as he 
lifted his head from an explosive kiss on his sweetheart's 
lips, startled at my presence, flushing red, lifted his hand 
in a half-salute, and at the same moment, in laughing 
apologetic confusion, he — winked at me! And his 
flushing young face was so bonnie, that had I known 
how I believe in my heart I'd have winked back, just 
from sheer good-fellowship and understanding. 

In that short season I had one experience, the mem- 
ory of which makes me pull a wry face to this day. 
I played Juliet to a " woman-Romeo " — a so plump 
Romeo, who seemed all French heels, tights, and wig, 
with Romeo marked " absent." I little dreamed I was 
bidding a personal farewell to Shakespeare and the old 
classic drama, as I really was doing. 

One other memory of that summer engagement that 
sticks is of that performance of Boucicault's " Jessie 
Brown, or the Siege of Lucknow," in which real soldiers 
acted as supernumeraries, and having been too well 
treated beforehand and being moved by the play, they 
became so hot that they attacked the mutineers not only 
with oaths but with clubbed muskets; and while blood 
was flowing and heads being cracked in sickening earnest 
on one side of the stage, a sudden wall-rending howl of 
derisive laughter rose from that part of the theatre 
favored by soldiers. I saw women holding programmes 
close, close to their eyes, and knew by that that some- 
thing was awfully wrong. 

The Scotch laddies were pouring over the wall, coming 
to the rescue of the starving besieged. I looked behind 
me. The wall, a stage wall, was cleated down the mid- 
dle to keep the join there firm, and no less than three 
of the soldiers had had portions of their clothing caught 
by the cleats as they scaled the wall. The cloth would 
not tear, the men were too mad to be able to see, and 



SETTLING IN NEW YORK 265 

there they hung, kicking like fiends and — well, the words 
of a ginny old woman, who sold apples and oranges in 
front of the house, will explain the situation. She cried 
out, at the top of her voice : " Yah ! yah ! why do ye no 
pull down yer kilties, instead o' kickin' there? yah! yer 
no decent — do you ken ? " and the curtain had to come 
whirling down before the proper time to save the lives 
of the men being pounded to death, and the feelings of 
the women who were being shamed to death. 

A surgeon had to attend to two heads before their 
owners could leave the theatre, and after that an officer 
was kind enough to come and take charge of the men 
loaned to the manager. 

Then I bade the people, whom I had found so pleas- 
ant, good-by — Mr. Louis Aldrich arriving as I was 
about leaving, keen, clever, active, full of visions, of 
plans, just as he is to-day. I and my little dog-com- 
panion made our way to New York. A lady and gentle- 
man, traveling acquaintances, advised me to go to the 
St. Nicholas, and as all hotels looked alike to me I went 
there. My worst dread was the dining-room. I could 
not afford to take meals privately, yet how could I face 
that great roomful of people alone! At last I resolved 
on a plan of action. I went up to the head waiter — 
from his manner an invisible crown pressed his brow ; 
his eyes gazed coldly above my humble head, his " Eh ? 
— beg pardon ! " was haughty and curt, yet, believe it 
or not, when I told him I was quite alone, and asked 
could he place me at some quiet retired table, he became 
human, he looked straightly and kindly at me. He him- 
self escorted me, not to a seat in line with the kitchen 
smells or the pantry quarrels, as I had expected, but to 
a very retired, very pleasant table by an open window, 
and assured me the seat should be reserved for me every 
day of my stay, and only ladies seated there. I was 
grateful from my heart, and I mention it now simply to 
show the general willingness there is in America to aid, 
to oblige the unprotected woman traveler. 



266 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Naturally anxious to find, as quickly as possible, a 
less expensive dwelling-place, I showed my utter igno- 
rance of the city by the blunder I made in joyfully 
engaging rooms in a quiet old-fashioned brick house be- 
cause it was on Twenty-first Street and the theatre was 
on Twenty- fourth, and the walk would be such a short 
one. All good New Yorkers will know just how " short " 
that walk was when I add that to reach the neat little 
brick house I had first to cross to Second Avenue, and, 
alas! for me on stormy nights, there was no cross-town 
car, then. 

However, the rooms were sunny and neatly furnished; 
the rent barely within my reach, but the entire Kiersted 
family were so unaffectedly kind and treated me so like 
a rather overweighted young sister that I could not have 
been driven away from the house with a stick. I tele- 
graphed to mother to come. She came. 

To the waiter who feeling the crown upon his brow 
yet treated me with almost fatherly kindness, I gave a 
small parting offering and my thanks ; and to the chamber- 
maid also — she with the pure complexion, bred from 
buttermilk and potatoes, and the brogue rich and thick 
enough to cut with a knife — who had " discoursed " to 
me at great length on religion, on her own chances of 
matrimony, on the general plan of the city, describing 
the " lay " of the diagonal avenues, their crossing streets 
and occasional junctures, in such confusing terms that 
a listening city- father would have sent out and borrowed 
a blind man's dog to help him find his home. Still she 
had talked miles a day with the best intentions, and I 
made my small offering to her in acknowledgment, and 
leaving her very red with pleasure, I departed from the 
hotel. That blessed evening found my mother and me 
house-keeping at last — at last! And as we sat over our 
tea, little Bertie, on the piano-stool at my side, ate but- 
tered toast ; then, feeling license in the air, slipped down, 
crept under the table, and putting beseeching small paws 
on mother's knee, ate more buttered toast — came back 



HOUSE-KEEPING AGAIN 267 

to me and the piano-stool, and bringing forth all her 
blandishments pleaded for a lump of sugar. She knew 
it was wrong, she knew / knew it was wrong, but, good 
heavens ! it was our house-warming — Bertie got the 
sugar. So we were settled and happily ready to begin 
the new life in the great strange city. 



CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND 

I Recall Mr. John E. Owens, and How He " Settled my 

Hash." 

JUST previous to my coming East I met, for the 
first time, Mr. John E. Owens. He was considered 
a wealthy man, and was at the height of his popu- 
larity as a comedian. He was odd, even his mar- 
riage seemed an expression of eccentricity, and one felt 
as if one had received a dash of cold water in the face 
when the hot-tempered, peppery, and decidedly worldly 
Mr. Owens presented the little orthodox Quakeress, with 
a countenance of gentle severity, as his wife. 

She wore the costume of her people, too, and watched 
him above her knitting-needles with folded lips and con- 
demning eye as he strutted and fumed and convulsed his 
audience. She was said to be a most tender and gentle 
nurse and, indeed, a devoted wife, but she certainly 
seemed to look down upon theatrical life and people. 

Mr. Owens was telling me she was a clever business 
woman, with a quick eye for a good investment, when 
I jestingly answered : " That seems to be a peculiarity 
of the sect — thee will recall the fact that William Penn 
showed that same quality of eye in his beautiful and 
touching relations with the shrewd and knowing Ind- 
ians," and in the middle of his laugh, his mouth shut 
suddenly, his eyes rolled : " Oh, Lord ! " he said, " you've 
done for yourself — she heard you, your fate's fixed ! " 

" But," I exclaimed, " I was just joking." 

" No go ! " he answered, mournfully, " the eye that can 
see the main chance so clearly is blind to a joke. She 
has you down now on her list of the ungodly. No use 
trying to explain — I gave that up years ago. Fact of 

268 



MR. JOHN E. OWENS 269 

the matter is, when that Quakeress-wife of mine puts 
her foot down — I — well, I take mine up, but hers stays 
right there." 

Mr. Owens was of medium height and very brisk in 
all his movements, walking with a short and quick little 
step. He had a wide mouth, good teeth, and a funny 
pair of eyes. The eyeballs were very large and round, and 
he showed an astonishing amount of their whites, which 
were of an unusual brilliancy and lustre; this, added to 
his power of rolling them wildly about in their sockets, 
made them very funny; indeed, they reminded many 
people of a pair of large peeled onions. 

I think his most marked peculiarity was his almost 
frantic desire to provoke laughter in the actors about 
him. He would willingly throw away an entire scene 
— that is, destroy the illusion of the audience — in order 
to secure a hearty laugh from some actor or actress whom 
he knew not to be easily moved to laughter; and what 
was more astonishing still, if an actress in playing a 
scene with him fell from tittering into helpless laughter 
and failed to speak her lines, he made no angry protest, 
but regarded the situation with dancing eyes and de- 
lighted smiles, seeming to accept the breakdown as proof 
positive that he was irresistible as a fun-maker. 

For some reason I never could laugh at " Solon 
Shingle." Mr. Owens had opened in that part, and as 
I stood in the entrance watching the performance, my 
face was as grave as that of the proverbial judge. He 
noticed it at once, and paused a moment to stare at me. 
Next morning, just as he entered and crossed to the 
prompt-table at rehearsal, I, in listening to a funny story, 
broke out in my biggest laugh. Open flew the star's 
eyes, up slid his eyebrows. 

"Ha! ha!" said he, "ha! ha! there's a laugh for 
you — by Jove, that's a laugh as is a laugh ! " 

I turned about and faced him. He recognized me 
instantly. " Well, blast my cats ! " he exclaimed, " say, 
you young hyena, you're the girl that wouldn't laugh at 



270 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

me last night. I thought you couldn't, and just listen 
to your roars now over some tomfoolery. What was the 
matter with me, if you please, mum ? " 

I stood in helpless, awkward embarrassment, then, 
drawing in his lip and bulging out his eyes until they 
threatened to leap from their places, he advanced upon 
me, exclaiming : " Spare me these protestations and ex- 
planations, I beg ! " then tapped me on the chest with his 
forefinger and, added, in a different tone : " My young 
friend, I'll make you laugh or I'll cut my throat ! " next 
turned on his heel, and called : " Everybody ready for 
the. first act ? Come on, come on, let's get at it ! " 

Rehearsal began and Mr. Owens did not have to cut 
his throat. 

Funny in many things, it was the old farce of " Forty 
Winks " that utterly undid me, and not only sat me 
violently and flatly down upon the entrance floor, but set 
me shrieking with such misguided force that next day 
all the muscles across and near my diaphragm were too 
lame and sore for me to catch a breath in comfort. Per- 
haps that's not the right word, and I may not be locating 
the lamed muscles properly, but if you will go to see 
some comedian who will make you laugh until you cry, 
and cry until you scream, and laugh and cry and scream 
until you only breathe in gasps and sobs, you will next 
morning know exactly which muscles I have been re- 
ferring to — even if you haven't got a diaphragm about 
you. 

But really the mad absurdities Mr. Owens indulged 
in that night might have made the very Sphinx smile 
stonily. As a miserly old man, eating his bread-and- 
cheese supper in his cheap little bedroom, and retiring 
for the night only to be aroused by officers who are in 
pursuit of a flying man, and think they have now found 
him. Not much to go upon, that, but, oh, if you could 
have seen his ravening hunger; have seen his dog-like 
snaps at falling crumbs ; his slanting of the plate against 
the light to see if any streak of butter was being left; 



MR. OWENS'S ABSURDITIES 271 

his scooping up of bread-crumbs from his red-handker- 
chief lap, and eager licking up of the same ; have seen 
him sorting out his money and laying aside the thin, worn 
pennies to give the waiter ; breaking off the hardened 
grease that in melting had run down the candle's side, 
putting it away in his valise, " to grease his boots next 
winter" (a line he introduced for my especial benefit). 

Having gone up-stage and taken off his shoes, he sud- 
denly bethought him that there might be a few crumbs 
on the floor, and taking his candle, down he came to look, 
and turning his back to the audience, they screamed with 
sudden laughter, for two shining bare heels were plainly 
showing through his ragged black woollen socks. He 
paid no heed, but sought diligently, and when he found 
a crumb he put his finger to his lip to moisten it, and 
pouncing upon the particle, conveyed it to his mouth, and 
mumbled so luxuriously one almost envied him. Then, 
remarking that it was too cold to undress, he undressed, 
and as his coat came off he started toward a chair, say- 
ing, querulously : " He couldn't abide a man that wasn't 
neat and careful about his clothes," and down he pitched 
the coat in a heap upon the floor in front of the chair. 
His vest he dumped beside another seat, as he dolorously 
declared : " He had neat habits ever since his mother had 
taught him to put his clothes carefully on the chair at 
night." 

And so he went up and down and about, until that 
stage was one litter of old clothes. Blowing out his can- 
dle he got into bed, and, shivering with cold, tried fran- 
tically to pull the clothes over his poor shoulders — but 
all in vain. At last a tremendous jerk brought the quilt 
and sheet about his shoulders, only to leave his ancient 
black feet facing the audience, all uncovered. And so 
went on the struggle between feet and shoulders until, 
worn out, the old man finally " spooned " himself with 
knees in chest, and so was covered and fell asleep, only 
to be aroused by officers, and turned into driveling idiocy 
by a demand " for the girl." 



272 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

It was at the point when, sitting up in bed, trying, with 
agonizing modesty, to keep covered up, his eyes whitely 
and widely rolling, he pleadingly asked: " N-n-now I 
leave it to you — do I look like a seducer ? " that my 
knees abandoned me to my fate, and sat me down with 
a vicious thud that nearly shook the life out of me. And 
John Owens sat in bed and saw my fall and rejoiced with 
a great joy, and said : " Blast my cats — look at the girl ! 
there, now, that's something like laughing. I'd take off 
my hair and run around bald-headed for her ! " 

I was called upon to play blind Bertha to Mr. Owens's 
Caleb Plummer in the " Cricket on the Hearth," and I 
was in a great state of mind, as I had only seen one or 
two blind persons, and had never seen a blind part acted. 
I was driven at last by anxiety to ask Mr. Owens if he 
could make any suggestions as to business, or as to the 
walk or manner of the blind girl. But he was no E. L. 
Davenport, he had no desire to teach others to act, and 
he snappishly answered : " No — no ! I can't suggest 
anything for you to do — but I can suggest something 
for you not to do ! For God's sake don't go about play- 
ing the piano all evening — that's what the rest of 'em 
do!" 

" The piano ? " I repeated, stupidly. 

" Yes," he said, " the piano ! D — d if they don't make 
me sick! Here they go — all the 'Berthas' !" 

He closed his eyes, screwed up his face dismally, and 
advancing, his hands before him, began moving them 
from left to right and back, as though they were on a 
keyboard. It was very ridiculous. 

"And that's what they call blindness — playing the 
piano and tramping about as securely as anybody ! " 

Ah, ah! Mr. Owens, you did make a suggestion 
after all, though you did not mean to do it, but I found 
one all the same in that last contemptuous sentence, 
" tramping about as securely as anybody/' It quickened 
my memory — I recalled the piteous uncertainty of move- 
ment in the blind ; the dread hesitancy of the advancing 



PLAYING BLIND PARTS 273 

foot, unless the afflicted one was on very familiar ground. 
I tried walking in the dark, tried walking with closed 
eyes. It was surprising how quickly my fears gathered 
about my feet. Instinctively I put out one hand now and 
then, but the fear of bumping into something was as 
nothing to the fear of stepping off or down, or falling 
through the darkness — oh! 

Then I resolved to play Bertha with open eyes. It was 
much the more difficult way, but I was well used to tak- 
ing infinite pains over small matters, and believing that 
the open, unseeing eye was far more pathetic than the 
closed eye, I proceeded to work out my idea of how to 
produce the unseeing look. By careful experiment I 
found that if the eyes were very calm in expression, very 
slow in movement, and at all times were raised slightly 
above the proper point of vision, the effect was really 
that of blindness. 

It was unspeakably fatiguing to keep looking just 
above people's heads, instead of into their faces, as was 
my habit, but where is the true actor or actress who stops 
to count the cost in pain or in inconvenience when striv- 
ing to build up a character that the public may recognize ? 
Says the ancient cook-book : " First catch your hare, and 
then — " ; so with the actor, first catch your idea, your 
desired effect, and then reproduce it (if you can). But 
in the case of blind Bertha I must have reproduced with 
some success the effect I had been studying, for an old 
newspaper clipping beside me says that : " The doubt- 
ing, hesitating advance of her foot, the timid uncertainty 
of her occasional investigating hand spelled blindness as 
clearly as did her patient unseeing eyes," and for my re- 
ward that wretched man amused himself by pulling faces 
at me and trying to break me down in my singing of 
" Auld Robin Grey," until I was obliged to sing with 
my eyes tight shut to save myself from laughter; and 
when the curtain had fallen he said to me : " I'll settle 
your hash for you some night, young woman, you see if 
I don't — you just wait now! " And the next season, in 



274 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Cincinnati, in very truth, he did " settle my hash " for 
me, to his great delight and my vexation. 

He was so very, very funny as Major Wellington de 
Boots in " Everybody's Friend " ; his immense self-satis- 
faction, his stiff little strut, his martial ardor, his wild- 
eyed cowardice were trying enough, but when he delib- 
erately acted at you — oh, dear! He would look me 
straight in the eye and make faces at me, until I sobbed 
at every breath. Then he had a wretched little trick of 
rising slowly on his toes and sinking back to his heels 
again, while he cocked his head to one side so like a know- 
ing old dicky-bird that he simply convulsed me with 
laughter. 

I was his Mrs. Swansdown, and I had kept steady and 
never lost a line, until we came to the scene where, as 
my landlord and would-be husband, he brought some 
samples of wall-paper for me to choose from. Where, 
in heaven's name, he ever found those rolls of paper I 
can't imagine. They were not merely hideous but gro- 
tesque as well, and were received with shouts of laughter 
by the house. 

With true shopman's touch, he would send each piece 
unrolling toward the footlights, while holding up its 
breadth of ugliness for Mrs. Swansdown' 's inspection and 
approval, and every piece that he thus displayed he 
greeted at first sight with words of hearty admiration for 
its beauty and perfect suitability, until, catching disap- 
proval on the widow's face, he in the same breath, with 
lightning swift hypocrisy, turned his sentence into con- 
temptuous disparagement, and fairly shook his audience 
with laughter at the quickness of his change of opinion. 

At last he unfurled a piece of paper whose barbarity 
of design and criminality of color I remember yet. The 
dead-white ground was widely and alternately striped 
with a dark Dutch blue and a dingy chocolate brown, and 
about the blue stripes there twined a large pumpkin- 
colored morning-glory, while from end to end the brown 
stripes were solemnly pecked at by small magenta birds. 



"SETTLING MY HASH" 275 

The thing was as ludicrous as it was ugly — an Indian 
clay-idol might have cracked into smiles of derision over 
its artistic qualities. 

Then Mr. Owens, bursting into encomiums over its 
desirability as a hanging for the drawing-room walls of a 
modest little retreat, caught my frown, and continued: 
" Er — er, or perhaps you'd prefer it as trousering? " then, 
delightedly : " Yes — yes, you're quite right, it is a neat 
thing — cut full at the knee, eh ? Close at the foot, yes, 
yes, I see, regular peg-tops — great idea! I'll send you 
a pair at once. Oh, good Lord ! what have I done ! I 
— I — mean, I'll have a pair myself, Mrs. Swansdown, 
cut from this very piece of your sweet selection ! " 

Ah, well ! that ended the scene so far as my help went. 
The shrieking audience drowned my noise for a time, 
but, alas, it recovered directly, having no hysterics to 
battle with, while I buried my head deep in the sofa- 
pillows and rolled and screamed and wept and bit my 
lips, clinched my hands, and vainly fought for my self- 
control ; while all the time I saw a pair of trousers cut 
from that awful wall-paper, and Mr. Owens just bulged 
his white shiny eyes at me and pranced about and rejoiced 
at my downfall, while the audience, seeing what the 
trouble was, laughed all over again, and — and — well, 
" my hash " was very thoroughly " settled," even to the 
entire satisfaction of Mr. Owens's self. 



CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRD 

From the " Wild West " I Enter the Eastern " Parlor of 
Home Comedy " — I Make my First Appearance in 
" Man and Wife." 

THE original Fifth Avenue Theatre was a tiny 
affair, with but small accommodation for the pub- 
lic and none at all for the actor, unless he bur- 
rowed for it beneath the building; and indeed the deep, 
long basement was wonderfully like a rabbit-warren, with 
all its net-work of narrow passageways, teeming with life 
and action. The atmosphere down there was dreadful 
— I usually prefer using a small word instead of a large 
one, but it would be nonsense to speak of the " air " in 
that green-room, because there was none. Atmosphere 
was there stagnant, heavy, dead, with not even an electric 
fan to stir it up occasionally, and the whole place was 
filled with the musty, mouldy odor that always arises 
from carpets spread in sunless, airless rooms. Gas, too, 
burned in every tiny room, in every narrow slip of pas- 
sageway, and though it was all immaculately clean, it 
was still wonderful how human beings endured so many 
hours imprisonment there. 

It was on a very hot September morning that the com- 
pany was called together in the green-room of the Fifth 
Avenue Theatre. This first " call " of the season is gen- 
erally given over to greetings after the vacation, to chat- 
tings, to introductions, to welcomes, and a final distribu- 
tion of parts in the first play, and a notification to be on 
hand promptly next morning for work. With a heavily 
throbbing heart I prepared for the dreaded first meeting 
with all these strange people, and when I grew fairly 
choky, I would say to myself, " What nonsense, Mr. 

276 



FIRST NEW YORK SEASON 277 

Daly or the prompter will be there, and in the general 
introductions you will, of course, be included, and after 
that you will be all right — a smile, a bow, or a kind 
word will cost no more in a New York theatre than in 
any other one," which goes to prove what a very ignorant 
young person I was then. In looking back to that time, 
I often drop into the habit of considering myself as an- 
other person, and sometimes I am sorry for the girl of 
that day, and say : " You poor thing, if you had only 
known ! " or again, " What wasted trust — what needless 
sorrow, too ! " But I was then like the romping, trust- 
ing, all-loving puppy-dog who believes every living being 
his friend, until a kick or a blow convinces him to the 
contrary. 

I had two dresses, neither one really fit for the occa- 
sion, but I put on the best one, braided my mass of hair 
into the then proper chatelaine braids, and found comfort 
in them, and encouragement in a fresh, well-fitting pair 
of gloves. At half-past ten o'clock I entered the under- 
ground green-room. Two young men were there before 
me. I slightly bent my head, and one responded doubt- 
fully, but the other, with the blindness of stone in his 
eyes, bowed not at all. I sat down in a corner — the 
stranger always seeks a corner; can that be an instinct, 
a survival from the time when a tribe fell upon the 
stranger, and with the aid of clubs informed him of their 
strength and power? Anyway, as I said, I sat in a 
corner. There was the carpet, the great mirror, the 
cushioned bench running clear around the room, and that 
was all — oh, no! on the wall, of course, there hung 
that shallow, glass-covered frame or cabinet called, vari- 
ously, " the call-board," the " call-case," or even the "call- 
box." It is the official voice of the manager — when the 
" call-case " commands, all obey. There, in writing, one 
finds the orders for next day's rehearsal ; there one finds 
the cast of characters in the plays; there, too, the re- 
quests for the company's aid, on such a day, for such a 
charity benefit appears. Ah, a great institution is the 



278 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" call-case," being the manager's voice, but not his ears, 
which is both a comfort and an advantage at times to 
all concerned. 

That day I glanced at it ; it was empty. The first call 
and cast of the season would be put up presently. I 
wondered how many disappointments it would hold for 
me. Then there was a rustle of skirts, a tapping of heels, 
a young woman gayly dressed rushed in, a smile all ready 
for — oh ! she nodded briefly to the young men, then she 
saw me — she looked full at me. The puppy-dog trust 
arose in me, I was a stranger, she was going to bow, 
perhaps smile! Oh, how thankful I am that I was 
stopped in time, before I had betrayed that belief to her. 
Her face hardened, her eyes leisurely scorched up and 
down my poor linen gown, then she turned frowningly 
to the glass, patted her bustle into shape, and flounced 
out again. I felt as though I had received a blow. Then 
voices, loudly laughing male voices, approached, and 
three men came in, holding their hats and mopping their 
faces. They " bah-Joved " a good deal, and one, big 
and noisy, with a young face topped with perfect bald- 
ness, bowed to me courteously, the others did not see me. 

Where, I thought, was the manager all this time ? Then 
more laughter, and back came my flouncy young woman 
and two of her kind with her; pretty, finely dressed, 
badly bred women, followed by one whom I knew in- 
stantly. One I had heard much of, one to whom I had 
a letter of introduction — I have it still, by the way. She 
was gray even then, plain of feature, but sweet of voice 
and very gentle of manner. I lifted my head higher. 
Of course she would not know me from sole-leather, but 
she would see I was a stranger and forlornly alone, and 
besides, being already secure in her position in the company 
— she was its oldest member — and therefore, in a certain 
measure, a hostess, and as my mere presence in the green- 
room showed I was a professional of some sort or quality, 
both authority and kindness would prompt her to a bow, 
a smile, perhaps a pleasant word. I looked hungrily at 



THE NEW ARRIVAL 279 

her, her bright, small eyes met mine, swept swiftly over 
me, and then she slowly turned her black silk back upon 
me, the stranger in her gate ; and as I swallowed hard at 
the lump Mrs. Gilbert's gentle indifference had brought 
to my throat, my old sense of fun came uppermost, and 
I said to myself : " No morning is lost in which one 
learns something, and I have discovered that covering a 
club neatly in velvet improves its appearance, without in 
the least detracting from the force of its blow." 

And then the passage resounded with laughter and 
heel-taps, the small room filled full; there was a surg- 
ing of silken gowns, a mingling of perfumes and of 
voices, high and excited, and, I must add, affected ; much 
handshaking, many explosive kisses, and then, down the 
other passageway, came more gentlemen. They were a 
goodly crowd — well groomed, well dressed, manly fel- 
lows, and all in high good-humor, except Mr. Davidge, 
but, in mercy's name! who ever saw, who would have 
wished to see " rare old Bill " in a good humor ? 

Such gay greetings as were exchanged around about 
and even over me, since my hat was twice knocked over 
my eyes by too emphatic embracings in such crowded 
quarters — and still no manager, no prompter. When 
they quieted down a bit, everyone took stock of me. It 
would have been a trying position even had I been prop- 
erly gowned, but as it was the ill-suppressed titters of 
two extravagantly gowned nonentities and the swift, 
appraising glances of the others kept me in agony. 

Suddenly a quick step was heard approaching. I 
nearly laughed aloud in all my misery at their lightning- 
quick change of manner. Silence, as of the grave, came 
upon them. They all faced toward the coming steps — 
anxious-eyed, but with smiles just ready to tremble on 
to their lips at an instant's notice. Never had I seen 
anything so like trick-poodles. They were ready to do 
" dead dog," or jump over a chair, or walk on two legs 
— ready, too, for either the bone or the blow. I knew 
from their strained attitude of attention who was com- 



280 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

ing, and next moment, tall and thin and dour, Mr. Daly 
stood in the doorway. He neither bowed nor smiled, 
but crossly asked : " Is Miss Morris here ? " 

Everyone looked reproachfully at everyone else for not 
being the desired person. Then as the managerial frown 
deepened, from my corner I lifted a rather faint voice 
in acknowledgment of my presence, saying : " Yes, sir, 
I am here," and he gave that peculiar " huh ! " of his, 
which seemed to be a combination of groan and snort, and 
instantly disappeared again. 

Oh, dear! oh, dear! I had felt myself uncomfortable 
before, but now ? It was as if I had sprung up and 
shouted : " Say ! I'm Miss Morris ! " Everyone gazed 
at me openly now, as if I were a conundrum and they 
were trying to guess me. I honestly believe I should 
have broken down under the strain in a moment more, 
but fortunately a slender little man made his silent ap- 
pearance at one of the doors and took off his immaculate 
silk hat, revealing the thin, blond hair, the big, pale blue 
pop-eyes of James Lewis. Twenty minutes ago my heart 
would have jumped at sight of him, but I had had a 
lesson. I expected no greeting now, even from a former 
friend. I sat quite still, simply grateful that his coming 
had taken the general gaze from my miserable face. He 
shook hands all round, glanced at me and passed by, then 
looked back, came back, held out his hand, saying : 
" You stuck-up little brute, I knew you in aprons and 
pig-tails, and no v you ain't going to speak to me; how 
are you, Clara?" 

While I was huskily answering him, a big woman ap- 
peared at the door. Her garments were aggressively 
rich, and lockets (it was a great year for lockets) dangled 
from both wrists, from her watch-chain, and from her 
neck-chain. She glittered with diamonds — in a street- 
dress which might also have answered for a dinner-dress. 
I laughed to myself as I thought what a prize she would 
be for pirates. Then I looked at her handsome face and, 
as our eyes met, we recognized each other perfectly, but 



SNUBBED 281 

my lesson being learned I made no sign, I had no wish 
to presume, and she — looked over my head. 

M. Benot, the Frenchman who died in harness early 
in the season, poor little gentleman! came in then with 
the MSS. and the parts of the play, " Man and Wife." 
Silence came upon the company. As M. Benot called 
Mr. or Miss So-and-so, he or she advanced and received 
the part assigned to them. " Miss Clara Morris ! " I 
rose stiffly — I had sat so long in my corner — and re- 
ceived rather a bulky part. I bowed silently and resumed 
my seat, but the place was for a moment only a black, 
windy void ; I had seen the name on my part — I was 
cast for Blanche, a comedy part! 

As I came back to my real surroundings, M. Benot 
was saying : " Eleven o'clock sharp to-morrow, ladies 
and gentlemen, for rehearsal." 

People began hurrying out. I waited a little, till nearly 

all were gone, whispering " Miss Ethel for Anne, Miss 

t Ethel for Anne " when the handsome " Argosy of wealth " 

sailed up to me, and, in a voice of sweet uncertainty, said : 

" I wonder if you can possibly recognize me ? " 

" Oh, yes," I answered, smiling broadly, " we recog- 
nized each other at the moment you entered, Miss 
Newton." 

She reddened and stammered something about " not 
being quite sure — and out West, and now here," and as 
she was even prettier than when I had last seen her, I 
told her so, and — we were happy ever after. 

Then I slipped out of the theatre and crossed to Twenty- 
first Street safely, but could control my grief and pain, 
my mortification and my disappointment, no longer. Tears 
would have their way, and I held my sunshade low before 
. my tear-washed, grieving face. Those little ill-suppressed 
smiles at my clothes, those slightly lifted eyebrows, and 
there was not even a single introduction to shelter me 
to-morrow, and as to Blanche, oh, I thought " let her 
wait till I get home ! " 

At last mother opened the door for me. I flung the 



282 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

hat from my aching head, and as she silently tied a wet 
handkerchief about my throbbing temples, I blurted out 
three words : " A comedy part! " and fell face downward 
on the bed, and cried until there was not a tear left in 
me, and considering my record as a shedder of tears, 
that's saying a good deal. Afterward I knelt down and 
hid my shamed face in the pillow and asked forgiveness 
from the ever-pitiful and patient One above, and prayed 
for a clear understanding of the part entrusted to me. 
Oh, don't be shocked. I have prayed over my work all 
my life long, and I can't think the Father despises any 
labor that is done to His honor. And I humbly gave 
over my further thought of Anne, and praying pardon 
for the folly of " kicking against the pricks " and wasting 
my scant strength in useless passion, I retired, at peace 
with myself, the world, and even Blanche. 

Next morning a curious thing happened. I heard, or 
thought I heard, the words : " The first shall be last and 
the last shall be first," and I called from my bed : " Did 
you speak to me, mother ? " and she answered, " No." 

As I sat over my coffee and rolls, I said, absently: 
" The first shall be last, and the last shall be first." 

" What do you mean ? " mother asked. 

" Nothing," I said. " The words were in my ears when 
I awoke, and they keep coming back to me." 

I rose and dressed for rehearsal. As I drew on my 
gloves I heard a hurried voice asking for me in the hall. 
I recognized it as M. Benot's. My heart sank like lead 
— was even the comedy part to be taken from me? I 
opened the door. Out of breath, the little man gasped: 
" I so come quite quick for Monsieur T>2.-lay. He make 
me to ask you right away, very quick, can you play that 
part of Anne? " 

My breath came in gasps, I might have been the run- 
ner! I answered, briefly: "Yes!" 

" Then," said he, " here give you to me that other part, 
Blanche." 

I gave it joyously. 



HAIL, DALY! 283 

" Take you now this of Anne and make of the great 
haste to Monsieur Da-lay's office, before — comprenez- 
vous — before that you go on the stage, or see anyone 
else, he want you to make some lies, I tink, so you best 
hurry ! " 

" Mother, mother ! " I cried. As she ran, I held out 
to her the part, Anne Sylvester, written large on it. She 
looked, and said : " The last shall be first ! " and kissing 
me, pushed me toward the stairs. 

I almost ran in my anxiety to obey orders; my mind 
was in a state of happy confusion — what could it all 
mean ? The announcement had been distinctly made only 
yesterday that Miss Agnes Ethel would play Anne. Was 
she ill ? Had she met with an accident ? And why should 
Mr. Daly wish to see me privately? Could he be going 
to ask me to read the part over to him? Oh, dear, 
heaven forbid! for I could much more successfully fly 
up into the blue sky. 

The stairs that led down from the sidewalk to the 
stage-door passed across the one, the only, window of 
the entire basement, which let a modicum of light into 
a tiny den, intended originally for the janitor's use, but 
taken by Mr. Daly for his private office. Here the great 
guiding intelligence of the entire establishment was lo- 
cated. Here he dreamed dreams and spun webs, watch- 
ing over the incomings, the outgoings, the sayings and 
the doings of every soul in the company. He would have 
even regulated their thoughts, if he could. I once said 
to him, after a rehearsal : " If you could, sir, while in 
the theatre at least, you would force us all to think only 
'Hail, Daly!'" 

He laughed a little, and then rather grimly remarked : 
" That speech made to anyone else would have cost you 
five dollars, Miss Morris. But if you have absolutely 
no reverence, neither have you fear, so let it pass," and I 
never said " Thank you " more sincerely in my life, for 
I could ill afford jests at five dollars apiece. 

But that morning of the first rehearsal, as I hurried 



284 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

down the stairs, the shade was drawn up high, and through 
the window I saw Mr. Daly sitting, swinging about, in 
his desk-chair. Before I could tap, he called for me to 
enter. He was very pale, very rumpled, very tired-look- 
ing. He wasted no time over greetings or formalities, 
but curtly asked : " Can you play Anne Sylvester? " 

And, almost as curtly, I answered : " Yes, sir ! " 

The calm certainty of my tone seemed to comfort him ; 
he relaxed his seemingly strained muscles, and sank back 
into his chair. He passed his long, thin fingers wearily 
across his closed eyes several times, then, as he opened 
them, he asked, sharply: "Can you obey orders?" 

" Yes," I answered, " I've been obeying orders all my 
life long." 

" Well," he said, " can you keep quiet — that's the 
thing. Can you keep quiet about this part ? " 

I stared silently at him. 

" This thing is between ourselves. Now, are you go- 
ing to tell the people all about when you received it ? " 

I smiled a little bitterly as I replied : " I am hardly 
likely to tell my business affairs to people who do not 
speak to me." 

He looked up quickly, for I stood all the time, and 
asked : " What's that, don't speak to you ? Were you 
not welcomed " 

I broke his speech with laughter, but he would not 
smile : " Were you not properly treated ? Who was lack- 
ing in courtesy? " 

" Oh, please," I hurried, " don't blame anyone. You 
see there were no introductions made, and of course I 
should have remembered that the hospitality of the East 
is more — er — well, cautious than that of the West, and 
besides I must look very woolly and wild to your people." 

" Ah ! " he broke in, " then in a measure the fault is 
mine, since worry and trouble kept me away from the 
green-room. But Benot should have made introductions 
in my place — and — well, I'm ashamed of the women! 
cats! cats!" 



CHANGING THE CAST 285 

" Oh, no ! " I laughed, u not yet, surely not yet ! " 

Suddenly he returned to the part : " You will tell the 
people that you were to play Anne in the first place." 

" But, Mr. Daly," I cried, " the whole company saw 
me receive the part of Blanche" 

He gnawed at the end of his mustache in frowning 
thought. " One woman to whom it belongs refuses the 
part," he said; "another woman, who can't play it, de- 
mands it from me, and I want to stop her mouth by mak- 
ing her believe the part was given to you before I knew 
her desire for it — do you see ? " 

Yes, with round-eyed astonishment, I saw that this al- 
most tyrannically high-handed ruler had someone to 
placate — someone to deceive. 

" You will therefore tell the people you received Anne 
last night." 

I was silent, hot, miserable. 

"Do you hear?" he asked, angrily. "Good God! 
everything goes wrong. The idiot that was to dramatize 
the story of " Man and Wife " for me has failed in his 
work; the play is announced, and I have been up all 
night writing and arranging a last act for it myself. If 
Miss Davenport thinks she has been refused Anne, she 
will take her revenge by refusing to play Blanche, and 
the cast is so full it will require all my people — you 
must say you received the part last night ! " 

" Mr. Daly," I said, " won't you please trust to my 
discretion. I don't like lying, even for my daily bread, 
but if silence is golden, a discreet silence is away above 
rubies." 

He struck his hand angrily on the desk before him: 
" Miss Morris, when I give an order " 

Up went my head : " Mr. Daly, I have nothing to do 
with your private affairs ; any business order " 

Heaven knows where we would have brought up had 
not a sudden darkness come into the little room — a 
woman quickly passed the window. Mr. Daly sprang 
to his feet, caught my fingers in a frantic squeeze, and 



286 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

pushing me from the door rapidly, said : " Yes — yes — 
well, do your best with it. I'm very glad Benot found 
you last night ! " Then turning to the new-comer, who 
had not been present the day before, he cheerfully ex- 
claimed : " Well, you didn't lose to-day's train, I see ! 
I have a charming comedy part for you — come in ! " 

She went in, and the storm broke, for as I felt my way 
through the passage leading to the stage-stairs, I heard 
its rolling and rumbling, and two dimly-seen men in front 
of me laughed, while one, pointing over his shoulder, 
toward the office, sneered, meaningly : " Ethel stock is 
going down, isn't it ? " 

And almost I wished I was back in a family theatre. 



CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURTH 

I Rehearse Endlessly — I Grow Sick with Dread — I Meet 
with Success in Anne Sylvester. 

UP-STAIRS I found a bare stage, as is often the 
case for a first mere reading of parts, and most 
of the company sitting on camp-stools, chatting 
and laughing. Already M. Benot had announced the 
change in the cast, and people looked at me in perfect 
stupefaction : " Good heavens ! what a risk he is tak- 
ing ! Who on earth is she, anyway ? " and I cleared my 
throat in mercy to the speaker, who didn't know I stood 
behind her. 

That morning I was introduced to a number of the 
ladies and gentlemen, but it was a mere baptism of 
water, not of the spirit. I was not one of them. Under- 
stand, no one was openly rude to me, everyone bowed a 
" good-morning," but, well, you can bow a good-morn- 
ing over a large iron fence with a fast-locked gate in it. 
That my dresses of gray linen or of white linen struck 
them as being funny in September is not to be wondered 
at, yet they must have known that necessity forced me 
to wear them, and that their smiles were not always 
effaced quickly enough to spare me a cruel pang. And 
my amazement grew day by day at their own extrava- 
gance of dress. Some of the ladies wore a different 
costume each day during the entire rehearsal of the play. 
How, I wondered, could they do it ? Two of them, Miss 
Kate Claxton and Miss Newton, had husbands to pay 
their bills, I found, and Miss Linda Dietz — the gentlest, 
most sweetly-courteous creature imaginable — had parents 

287 



288 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

and a home ; but the magnificence of the others remained 
an unsolvable mystery. 

Another thing against me was, I could not act even 
the least bit at rehearsal. Foreign actors will act in cold 
blood at a daylight rehearsal, but few Americans can do 
it. I read my lines with intelligence, but gave no sign 
of what I intended to do at night. Of course that made 
Mr. Daly suffer great anxiety, but he said nothing, only 
looked at me with such troubled, anxious eyes that I felt 
sorry for him. One gentleman, however, decided that I 
was — not to put too fine a point upon it — "a lunk- 
head." He treated me with supercilious condescension, 
varied occasionally with overbearing tyranny. Just one 
person in the theatre knew that I was really a good 
t actress, of considerable experience, and that was James 
Lewis ; and from a tricksy spirit of mischief he kept the 
silence of a graven image, and when Mr. Dan Harkins 
took me aside to teach me to act, Lewis would retire to 
a quiet spot and writhe with suppressed laughter. 

One day he said to me : " Say, you ain't cooking up 
a huge joke on these gas-balloons, are you, Clara? And 
upon my soul you are doing it well — you act as green 
as a cucumber. " 

And never did I succeed in convincing him that I had 
not engineered a great joke on the company by deceptive 
rehearsing. One tiny incident seemed to give Mr. Daly 
a touch of confidence in me. In the " Inn scene " a vio- 
lent storm was raging, and at a critical moment the candle 
was supposed to be blown out by a gust of wind from 
the left door, as one of the characters entered. They 
were using a mechanical device for extinguishing the 
candle, and it was tried several times one morning, and 
always, to my surprise, from the right side of the stage. 
No one seemed to notice anything odd, though the flame 
streamed out good and long in the wrong direction before 
going out. At last I ventured, as I was the principal in 
the scene : " I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but is it not 
the wind from the open door that blows that light out ? " 



CONTRARY WINDS 289 

Then, quick and sharp, mine enemy was upon me: 
" This is our affair, Miss Morris." 

" Yes," I answered, " but the house will laugh if the 
candle goes out against the storm," and Mr. Daly sprang 
up, and, smiling his first kindly smile at me, said : " What 
the deuce have we all been thinking of — you're right, 
the candle must be extinguished from the left," and as 
I glanced across the stage I saw Lewis doing some neat 
little dancing steps all by himself. 

The rehearsals were exhausting in the extreme, the 
heat was unnatural, the walk far too long, and, well, to 
be frank, I had not nearly enough to eat. My anxiety 
was growing hourly, my strength began to fail, and at 
the last rehearsals, white as wax from weakness, I had 
to be carried up the stairs to the stage. Having such a 
quick study, requiring but few rehearsals, I was from 
the fourth day ready at any moment to go on and play 
my part. Fancy, then, what a waste of strength there 
was in forcing me, day after day, to go over long, im- 
portant scenes — three, five, even seven times of a morn- 
ing — for the benefit of one amateur actress, who simply 
could not remember to-day what she had been told yes- 
terday. It was foolish, it was risking a breakdown, when 
they had no one to put in my place. Mr. William Davidge 
was the next greatest sufferer, and as an experienced old 
actor he hotly resented being called back to go over a 
scene, again and again, " that a ' walking vanity ' might 
be taught her business at his expense ! " 

And though I liked and admired the " walking van- 
ity " (who did not in the least deserve the name), I did 
think the manner of her training was costly and unjust, 
and one morning, just before the production of the play, 
I — luckily as it would seem — lost my self-control for 
a moment, and created a small sensation. In my indi- 
vidual case, fainting is always preceded by a moment of 
total darkness, and that again by a sound in my ears as 
of a rushing wind. That morning, as I finished the sixth 
repetition of Anne's big scene with Lady Glenarm, the 



290 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

warning whir was already in my ears, when the order 
came to go over it again, " that Mrs. Glenarm might be 
quite easy." It was too much — a sudden rage seized 
upon me: " Mrs. Glenarm will only be quite easy when 
the rest of us are dead ! " I remarked as I took my place 
again, and when I received my cue I whirled upon her 
with the speech : " Take care, Mrs. Glenarm, I am not 
naturally a patient woman, trouble has done much to tame 
my temper, but endurance has its limits ! " 

It was given with such savage passion that Miss Dietz 
burst into frightened tears and forgot utterly her lines, 
while a silence that thrilled, absolute, dead, came upon the 
company for a moment. Hastily I controlled myself, but 
there were whispers and amazed looks everywhere. Mr. 
George Brown, who played the pugilist, said aloud to a 
group : " She's done the whole crowd — she's an actress 
to the core ! " 

Mr. Daly sat leaning forward at the prompt-table, 
white as he could well be. His eyes were wide and 
bright, and, to my surprise, he spoke quite gently to me as 
he said: "Spare yourself — just murmur your lines, 
Miss Morris." And Miss Dietz said: "Oh, Mr. Daly, 
I am so glad I am prepared ; I should have fallen in my 
tracks if she had done that to me at night, without 
warning." 

When I left the stage, one of the ladies swept her dress 
aside, and said : " Sit here by me ; how tired you must 
be ! " It was the first friendly advance made to me. Be- 
fore rehearsal ended I overheard the young man with 
the bald head saying : " She has sold us all, and I bet 
she will completelv change the map of the Fifth Avenue 
Theatre." 

" Oh, no, she won't," answered Lewis, shortly, " she's 
not that type of woman ! " 

" Well, at all events, on the strength of that outburst, 
I ain't afraid to bet twenty good dollars that she makes 
pie out of Ethel's vogue ! " Then, seeing me, he removed 
his hat hurriedly, offering his shoulder for me to lean 



A HUMAN CHESS-MAN 291 

upon as I descended the winding-stairs, and I said to 
myself : " Yesterday this would have been a kindly ser- 
vice ; to-day — to-day it is not far from an humiliation." 

Hitherto I had known neither clique nor cabal in a 
theatre ; now I found myself in a network of them. The 
favorite — who, I had supposed, lived only in the historic 
novel — I now met in real life, and found her as charming, 
as treacherous, and as troublesome in the theatre as she 
could ever have been in a royal court. There was no 
one to explain to me the nature or progress of the game 
that was being played when I came upon the scene ; but 
I soon discovered there were two factions in the theatre, 
Miss Agnes Ethel heading one, Miss Fanny Davenport 
the other. Each had a following, but Miss Ethel, who 
had been all-powerful, had overestimated her strength 
when she refused, point-blank, to play Anne Sylvester, 
giving as her reason " the immorality of Anne." This 
from the lady who had been acting all season in " Fer- 
nande " and " Frou-Frou " — as a gambler's decoy and 
an adulterous wife abandoning child and home — satis- 
factorily proved the utter absence of a sense of humor 
from her charming make-up. 

Mr. Daly, like every other man, could be managed with 
a little patient finesse, but he would not be bullied in busi- 
ness affairs by any living creature, as he proved when, 
rather than change the play to please the actress he then 
regarded as his strongest card, he trusted a great part 
to the hands of an unknown, untried girl, and gave out 
to the newspapers that Miss Ethel had sprained her 
ankle, and, though in perfect health, could not walk well 
enough to act. And, after my momentary outburst, the 
anti-Ethelites suddenly placed me on one of the sixty- 
four squares of their chess-board ; but I knew not whether 
I was castle, knight, bishop, or pawn, I only knew that 
I had become a piece of value in their game, and they 
hoped to move me against Ethel. 

It was all very bewildering, but I had other things to 
think about, and more important. My money had run 



292 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

so low I was desperately afraid I could not get dresses 
for the play, and for the white mousseline necessary for 
the croquet-party of the first act I was forced to go to a 
very cheap department store, a fact the dress nightly pro- 
claimed aloud from every inch of its surface. Shawl 
dresses were the novelty of that season, and at Stewart's 
I found a modestly priced dark-gray shawl overskirt and 
jacket that I could wear over a black alpaca skirt for 
two acts. The other two dresses I luckily had in my ward- 
robe, and when my new shoes, a long gray veil, and two 
pairs of gray gloves were laid into the dressing-room 
basket, I had in the whole world $2.38, on which we had 
to live until my first week's salary came to me. But, oh, 
that last awful day before the opening * night. I was 
suffering bodily as well as mentally. I had had an alarm- 
ing attack of pleurisy. My mother had rung the bell and 
left a message at the first house that carried a doctor's 
sign. He came; he was far gone in liquor; he was 
obstinate, almost abusive — to be brief, he blistered me 
shockingly ; another doctor had to be called to dress and 
treat the hideous blisters the first had produced; and the 
tight closing of dress-waists about me was an agony not 
yet forgotten. But what was that to the nervous terror, 
the icy chill, the burning fever, the deadly nausea! I 
could not swallow food — I could not ! My mother stood 
over me while, with tear-filled eyes, I disposed of a raw, 
beaten egg, and then she was guilty of the dreadful ex- 
travagance of buying two chops, of which she made a 
cup of broth, and fearing a breakdown if I attempted 
without food five such acts as awaited me, she almost 
forced me to swallow it to the last drop after my hat 
was on and I was ready to start. I always kiss my mother 
good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and stiff 
with fright that they would not move. I dropped my 
head for a moment upon her shoulder, she patted me 
silently with one hand and opened the door with the 
other. My little dog, escaping from the room, rushed 
to me, leaping against my knees. I caught her up, and 



GETTING ON 293 

she covered my troubled, veiled face with frantic kisses. 
I passed her to mother and crept painfully down the 
steps. I glanced back — mother waved her hand and in- 
nocently called : " Good luck ! God bless you ! " 

The astonishing conjunction of superstition and ortho- 
dox faith touched my sense of the ridiculous. I laughed 
aloud, Bertie barked excitedly, I faced about and went 
forward almost gayly to meet — what? As I reached 
Broadway, I remember quite distinctly that I said aloud, 
to myself : " Well, God's good to the Irish, and at all 
events I was born on St. Patrick's day — so Garryowen 
forever ! " 

The pendulum was swinging to the other extreme, I 
was in high spirits; nor need you be surprised, for such 
is the acting temperament. 

I had not on that first night even the comfort of a 
dressing-room to myself, but shared one of the tiniest 
closets with Mrs. Roberta Norwood, in whose chic 
blonde person I failed utterly to see a future friend. 
The terrible heat, the crowding, the strange companion, 
all brought back the memory of that far-away first night 
of all in Cleveland; but now there was no Mrs. Brad- 
shaw to go to for advice or commendation. The sense 
of utter loneliness came upon me suddenly, and I bent 
my head low over the buckling of my shoe that my rising 
tears might not be noticed. 

We were directly beneath the auditorium parquet, 
and every seat flung down by the ushers seemed to strike 
a blow upon our heads, while applause shook dust into 
our eyes and hair. Forced occupation is the best cure 
for nervousness, and in the hurried making-up and dress- 
ing I for the time forgot my fright. Two or three per- 
sons had come to the door to speak to Mrs. Norwood, and 
it seemed to me they were all made up unusually pale. 
I looked at myself in the glass, I hesitated, at last I turned 
and asked if I wore too much color — if I was too red, 
and the answer I received was : " That's a matter of 
taste." 



2Q4 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Now it was not a matter of taste, but a matter of busi- 
ness. She was familiar with the size and the lighting 
of the theatre, and I was not, yet either from extreme 
self-occupation or utter indifference she allowed me to 
go upon that tiny stage painted like an Indian about to 
take the war-path. Truly I was climbing up a thorny 
stem to reach the flower of success. 

The overture was at its closing bars, all were rushing 
to the stairs for the first act. I stopped behind the dress- 
ing-room door and bent my head for one dumbly pleading 
moment, then muttering " Amen — amen," I, too, hurried 
up the stairs to face the awful first appearance before a 
New York audience. 

I had always been rehearsed to enter with the crowd 
of guests. The cue came, and as I stepped forward, a 
strong hand caught my arm. Mr. Daly had suddenly 
changed his mind, he held me fast till all were on, then 
let me go, whispering, " Now — now/' and I went on 
alone. 

I had to retire to the back of the stage and wait a few 
moments till spoken to. Never shall I forget the sort of 
horror the closeness of the audience caused me, I felt I 
should step upon the upturned faces; I wanted to put 
out my hands and push the people back, and their use 
of opera-glasses filled my eyes with angry tears. Sud- 
denly I understood the meaning of the lightly painted 
faces. I raised my handkerchief and wiped some of the 
red from my cheeks, while somewhat bitterly, I am afraid, 
I thought that " love ye one another " and " thy neighbor 
as thyself " had been relegated to the garret with " God 
bless' our home." 

Then the astonishing beauty of the women on the 
stage struck me with dismay; their exquisite lacy 
dresses, their jewel-loaded fingers. Oh ! I thought, how 
can I ever hope to stand with them. I grew sick and 
cold. Then there dully reached my ears the words of 
Lady Lundy: "I choose — Anne Sylvester." It was 
my cue. I came slowly down ; no one knew me, no one 



I PLAY -ANNE" 295 

greeted me. I opened my lips, but no sound came. I 
saw a frightened look on Miss Newton's face; I tried 
again, and in a husky whisper, answered : " Thank you ; 
I'd rather not play." 

Out in front one actor friend, John W. Norton, watched 
and prayed for a success for me; when he heard the 
hoarse murmur, he dropped his head and groaned : " A 
failure — total and complete ! " But I also had noted 
that hoarse croak, and it had acted like a mighty spur. 
I was made desperate by it. I threw up my head, and 
answered my next cue with : " No, Lady Lundy, nothing 
is the matter ; I am not very well, but I will play if you 
wish it." 

I gave the words so bell-clear and with so much inso- 
lent humility that a round of applause of lightning quick- 
ness followed them. It was the first bit of genuine hearty 
kindness I had received in the city of New York. In my 
pleasure I forgot the character of Anne completely, and 
turned to the audience a face every feature of which, 
from wide, surprised eyes to more widely-smiling lips, 
radiated such satisfaction and good-fellowship that they 
first laughed aloud and then a second time applauded. 

At last! I was starting fair, we had shaken hands, 
my audience and I; my nerves were steady, my heart 
strong, the " part " good. I would try hard, I would do 
my best. I made my whispered appointment to meet 
Geoffrey, and when I returned and stood a moment, 
silently watching him, there came upon the house the 
silence that my soul loves — the silence that might thrill 
a graven image into acting, and I was not stone. 

Our scene began. Anne, striving desperately to restrain 
her feelings, said : " You are rich, a scholar, and a gen- 
tleman; are you something else besides all these — are 
you a coward and a villain, sir? " 

Clear and distinct from the right box, in suppressed 
tones, came the words : " Larmes de la voix ! larmes de 
la voix ! n Many glanced at the box, a few hissed im- 
patiently at the new mayor, Oakey Hall, who had spoken. 



296 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Our interview was interrupted by Lady Lundy (Miss 
Newton) and Sir Patrick Lundy (Mr. Lewis). I was 
dismissed by the first and left the stage. Applause broke 
forth — continued. Mr. Lewis and Miss Newton began 
to speak — the applause redoubled. I turned angrily. 
" What bad manners ! " I said. Mr. Daly ran up to me, 
waving his hands : " Go on ! go on ! It's you, you fool ! " 

" I know it," I replied, " but I'm not going to insult 
any actor by taking a call in the middle of his scene." 

" Confound you ! " he said, " will you do as I tell you ? " 
He caught me, whirled me about and, putting his hand 
between my shoulders, literally pitched me on to the 
stage, where I stood ashamed and mortified by what I 
honestly felt to be a slight to those two waiting to proceed. 

After that the evening's triumph, like the rolling snow- 
ball, grew as it advanced. At the end of the quarrel 
act with Mrs. Glenarm the curtain was raised on the 
stage picture — once, twice, three times. Then M. Benot 
said to Mr. Daly : " They want her," and Mr. Daly an- 
swered, sharply : " I know what they want, and I know 
what I don't want — ring up again ! " 

He did so; no use, the applause went on. Then Mr. 
Daly said to me : " Take Mrs. Glenarm on with you, 
and acknowledge this call." 

We went on together ; retired ; more applause. Again 
we went on together; no use, the applause would not 
stop. " Oh, well, ring up once more," said Mr. Daly, 
" and here, you, take it yourself." 

I went on alone, and the audience rose as one individual. 
I saw them, all blurred through happy tears. I held my 
hands out to them, with a very passion of love. The 
house blossomed with white waving handkerchiefs in 
answer. The curtain fell and, before I moved, rose once 
more, and then, as I live by bread! I saw pass between 
me and those applauding people a little crying child 
carrying a single potato in her hand. Of course that 
was nerves ; but I saw her, I tell you I saw her ! and 
surely I should know myself! 



MY FIRST NEW YORK TRIUMPH 297 

In the fourth act, which was a triumph for all con- 
cerned in it — and that meant nearly everyone in the cast 
— I received a compliment that I prize still. There is a 
certain tone which should be reserved for short important 
speeches only in strong and exciting scenes, where, by 
force of contrast, it has a great effect; so, in tones low, 
level, clear and cold as ice, Anne had scarcely taken her 
solemn oath : " I swear it, on my honor as a Christian 
woman, sir ! " when from end to end of their railed-in 
semicircle the musicians broke into swift applause. 
Catching the effect, their foreign impetuosity made them 
respond more quickly than could the Americans who 
seconded their action, while mere recognition from these 
play-worn, blase men was to me veritable incense. In 
the last act, Mrs. Gilbert, as Hester Detheridge, the sup- 
posed dumb woman, proved herself an artist to the finger- 
tips. Later I saw many Hesters, but never one to equal 
hers. 

At last, and late, far too late, the play ended in a blaze 
of glory. The curtain was raised for final compliments. 
All the actors in the play had been summoned — we all 
stood in line, a bowing, smiling, happy line — facing a 
shouting, hat, handkerchief, or cane-waving crowd of 
pleased, excited people. As I saw how many eyes were 
turned my way, with a leap of the heart I repeated : " If 
you make a favorable impression I will — yes, I will 
double that salary." 

Surely, I thought, no one can doubt that I have made 
a favorable impression, and, oh, mother, we will be so 
happy ! Just then I caught the eye of a young girl — I 
could have touched her outstretched hand, she was so 
close — she gave me a lovely smile, and taking from her 
bosom a bunch of scarlet carnations she threw them her- 
self. They fell on the stage. One of the actors picked 
them up and, turning, handed them to Blanche. I heard 
the disappointed " Oh ! " and caught her eye again, when, 
regardless of all the rules and regulations forbidding 
communication with the audience, I smiled and kissed 



298 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

my hand to her. As the curtain fell, in an instant every- 
one was talking with everyone else. I had begun alone 
— well, I must end alone. I slipped down the staircase 
least used, and at its foot met Mr. George Brown, who 
was waiting for me. He took my hands in his and gave 
me both commendation and congratulation, though they 
were stayed and braced with unconscious profanity ; and 
I squeezed his hands hard and said : " You are so good, 
oh! you are so good! but please take care, I'm afraid 
you'll get forfeited." When he cried : " D — n the for- 
feit, it's worth a few dollars to speak as you feel some- 
times, so good-night ! " 

I scrambled into my street-clothes, caught up the in- 
evitable bag, and fairly rushed from the theatre, and as 
I came up from that place of mouldy smell and burnt-out 
air, and lifted my face to the stupendous beauty of the 
heavens, sniffing delightedly at the cool, pure night air, 
suddenly I thought how delicious must have been the 
first long breath young Lazarus drew when, obeying the 
Divine command, he " came forth " from the tomb. 

Tired, excited, I hurried to carry the news to the two 
' who awaited me — my mother and my dog. At the cor- 
ner of Twenty-third Street and Broadway I had to pass 
around a party of ladies and gentlemen who stood talk- 
ing there, and a lady said as I passed : " No, no ! it's 
Morris, I tell you ; see, here it is — Clara Morris." She 
held up a folded programme, pointing out the name to 
a gentleman beside her. I laughed happily. Odd bits 
of the evening's happenings kept appearing before me 
like pictures. Sometimes I saw the unknown young 
girl's smiling face — and the scarlet flowers I failed to 
receive. Sometimes 'twas Mr. Daly's angry one as he 
pitched me on to the stage to acknowledge a compliment 
I did not want, great as it was. Most often I saw the 
faces of the lovely women of the company. What a 
galaxy of beauty they made! The stately Newton, the 
already full-blown, buxom Davenport, the tall, slender, 
deer-eyed Dietz, the oriental Volmer, the auburn-haired 



A SUCCESS 299 

Claxton, the blond Norwood! There were just two 
women in that company who were not beauties — Mrs. 
Gilbert and Miss Morris; even they were wholesome, 
pleasant women, who did not frighten horses by any 
means, but still if you speak of beauty — why, next! 
please ! 

At last I saw the lighted windows that told me home 
was near. Then up the stairs, where there bounded 
upon my breast the little black-and-tan bundle of love 
and devotion, called Bertie the loyal, whose fervid greet- 
ings made the removal of my hat so difficult a job that 
it was through the tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling dog 
I cried at last : " It's all right, Mumsey — a success ! 
Lots and lots of ' calls,' dear ! and, oh ! is there any- 
thing to eat — / am so hungry! " 

So, while the new actress's name was floating over 
many a dainty restaurant supper, its owner sat beneath 
one gas-jet, between mother and pet, eating a large piece 
of bread and a small piece of cheese; and, thankful for 
both, she talked to her small circle of admirers, telling 
them all about it, and winding up supper and talk with 
the declaration : " Mother, I believe the hearts are just 
the same, whether they beat against Western ribs or 
Eastern ribs ! " 

Then, supper over, I stumbled through my old-time 
" Now I lay me/' and adding some blurred words of 
gratitude (God must be so well used to sleep thanks, 
but very wide-awake entreaties!) I fell asleep, knowing 
that through God's mercy and my own hard work I was 
the first Western actress who had ever been accepted 
by a New York audience, and as I drowsed off, I mur- 
mured to myself: "And I'll leave the door open, now 
that I have opened it — I'll leave it open for all others " 



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH 

I Am Accepted by the Company — I am Warned against 
Mr. Fisk — I Have an Odd Encounter with Mr. Gould. 

THE following morning we were called to the 
theatre at eleven o'clock to have the play cut 
" judiciously," as old actors used to say. It was 
very loosely constructed, and, besides cutting, the entire 
drama required a tightening-up, as it were. 

Mr. Daly was the first to greet me and offer hearty 
and genial congratulations. Everyone followed his ex- 
ample, and that morning I was admitted into the family 
circle and came into my just inheritance of equality and 
fraternity. 

A little surprised, but very happy, I gave back smile 
for smile, hand-pressure for hand-pressure; for being 
held off at arm's length by them all had hurt worse I'm 
sure than they knew, therefore when they offered me 
kindly greeting I did not stop to study out the cause of 
this effect, but shut my eyes and opened my mouth, and 
took what luck had sent me, and thankfully became so 
much one of them that I never had a clashing word with 
a member of the company — never saw the faintest cloud 
darken our good-fellowship. 

That morning, as the cutting was going on, I advanced 
and offered my part, but Mr. Daly waved me away. 
" No," he said, " there's plenty of useless matter to take 
out, but the public won't want Anne cut, they have none 
too much of her now." 

He gave but few compliments, even to those he liked, 
and he did not like me yet, therefore that gracious speech 
created a sensation among the other hearers and was 
carefully treasured up by me. 

300 



MR. DALY'S FRIENDSHIP 301 

Another of his sayings of that morning I recall. In 
conversation with one of the ladies, I remarked : " As 
a Western woman, I suppose I have various expressions 
to unlearn ? " when Mr. Daly turned quickly from the 
prompt-table, saying, sharply : " Miss Morris, don't say 
that again. You are a New York woman now — please 
remember that. You ceased to be a Westerner last night 
when you received the New York stamp." 

I thought him jesting, and was about to make some 
flippant reply, when one of the ladies squeezed my arm 
and said : " Don't, he will be angry ; he is in earnest." 

And he was, just as he was in earnest later on when 
we had become good friends, and I heard him for the 
first time swear like a trooper because I had been born 
in Canada. And when I laughed at his anger, he was 
not far from boxing my ears. 

" It's a damn shame ! " he declared ; " in the first place 
you are an American to the very marrow of your bones. 
In the next place you are the only woman I know who 
has a living, pulsing love of country and flag! Oh, the 
devil! I won't believe it — you born in a tu'penny ha'- 
penny little Canadian town under that infernal British 
flag! See here, if you ever tell anyone that — I'll — 
I'll never forgive you! Have you been telling that to 
people ? " 

I answered him : " I have not — but I have permitted 
the assertion that I was born in Cleveland to go uncor- 
rected," and, with the sweet frankness of friendship, he 
answered that I had more sense than he had given me 
credit for. But, small matter that it was, it annoyed him 
greatly, and I still have notes of his, sent on my birth- 
days, in which he petulantly refers to my unfortunate 
birth-place, and warns me to keep silent about it. 

Like many other great men — and Mr. Daly was a 
great man — he often made mountains out of mole-hills, 
devoting to some trifle an amount of consideration out 
of all proportion to the thing considered. 

On the first night of the season Mr. Daly had said to 



302 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

me : " One word, Miss Morris, that I had forgotten be- 
fore — Mr. James Fisk, unfortunately, as landlord, has 
the right of entrance into the green-room. He doesn't 
often appear there, but should he come in, if you are 
present I desire you should instantly withdraw. I do 
not wish you to be introduced to him under any circum- 
stances." 

I felt my face flushing red as I answered : "I have 
no desire to meet either Mr. Fisk or any other gentleman 
in the green-room ! " But Mr. Daly said, hurriedly : 
" Don't misunderstand me, there's no time for explana- 
tions now, only do as I ask you. You will recognize him 
when I tell you he is very blond and very like his pict- 
ures," and away flew Mr. Daly to attend to things enough 
to drive most men crazy. 

Now, that speech did not mean that Mr. Fisk was a 
monster of ill-breeding or of immorality, but it did mean 
that that was Mr. Daly's " tat " to Mr. Fisk's " tit " in 
a very pretty little "" tit-for-tat " quarrel between them. 

Mr. Daly very seldom tasted defeat — very, very sel- 
dom came out second best in an encounter ; but there had 
been a struggle anent the renting of the theatre: Mr. 
Fisk, as landlord, refusing to renounce his right of en- 
trance by the stage-door to any theatre he owned — 
nothing could move him, no argument, no entreaty, no 
threat; not even an offer of more rent than he himself 
asked. To Mr. Daly the right of entrance of an outsider 
back of the stage was almost unbearable, even though the 
privilege was seldom used and never abused. He de- 
clared he would not sign any agreement holding such a 
clause. He gave up the theatre rather than yield, and 
then, with a large company already engaged, he sought 
in vain for a house to shelter it. Now, the city is broken 
out all over, close and fine, with theatres, like a case of 
well-developed measles; but then 'twas different. Mr. 
Daly could find no other theatre, and he was compelled 
to accept the Fifth Avenue with the hated clause com- 
promised thus: Mr. Fisk was to have the right of en- 



JIMMY FISK 303 

trance to the green-room, but was never to go upon the 
stage or behind the scenes; an ending to the struggle 
that pleased the company mightily, for they were all very 
fond of Jimmy Fisk, or " The Prince," as he was called. 

He never forgot them on benefit nights; whether the 
beneficiary was man or woman there was always a gift 
ready from the " Railroad Prince." 

He looked like a man well acquainted with his tub. 
His yellow hair crisped itself into small waves right from 
its very roots. His blue eyes danced with fun, for he 
was one of nature's comedians. His manner was what 
he himself would describe as " chipper." No one could 
talk five minutes with him without being moved to 
laughter. 

His own box was the right upper one, and as I first 
had him pointed out to me, yellow-haired, laughing, flash- 
ing now and then a splendid ring, I wondered if he really 
was the stalking-horse of the dark little man with the 
piercing eyes who sat for one act well back of the re- 
dundant and diffuse Mr. James Fisk. Wishing to make 
sure of the dark man's identity, I asked who he was. 
" Oh," was the answer, " he's gone now, but I suppose 
it was Gould, rooting out the ' Prince ' to talk shop to 
him ! " then, thrusting out a contemptuous under-lip, 
my informant added : " He's no good — he has nothing 
to do with the theatre ! Scarcely ever comes to a perform- 
ance, and doesn't see anything when he does. He 
couldn't tell any one of us apart from the others if he 
tried — and he's not likely to try. You want to keep your 
eye on Jimmie. If he likes you, you're in for flowers and 
a present, too, on your benefit ! " 

Imagine, then, my amazement on the third night of the 
season when this occurred: In one act I made my exit 
before the curtain fell — all the other characters being 
still upon the stage. Having a change of dress there, I 
always hurried down-stairs as quickly as possible, and 
passing in one door and out of the other, crossed the 
green-room to reach my dressing-room. That evening 



304 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

as I ran in I saw a gentleman standing near the opposite 
door. I turned instantly to retreat, when a voice called : 
" If you please." I paused, I turned. The gentleman 
removed his hat, and coming to the centre of the room 
held out his hand, saying : " Miss Morris — you are 
Miss Morris ? " 

I smiled assent and gave him my hand. His small, 
smooth fingers closed upon mine firmly. We stood and 
looked at each other. He was small, and dark of hair 
and of beard, and his piercing eyes seemed to be reading 
me through and through. He spoke presently, in a voice 
low and gentle — almost to sadness. 

" I wanted to speak to you," he said ; " I'm not going 
to waste time telling you you are a wonderful actress, 
because the papers have already done that, and all New 
York will do it, but I see you are an honest girl and 
alone here " 

" No — oh, no ! " I broke in, " my mother, too, is 
here!" 

A faint smile seemed to creep about his bearded lips, 
there was a distinct touch of amusement in his voice as 
he said : " I-n-d-e-e-d ! a valiant pair, no doubt — a truly 
valiant pair! but," his small fingers closed with surpris- 
ing strength about mine in emphasis of his words, " but, 
oh, my honest little woman, you are going to see trouble 
here ! " He glanced down at the hateful cheap dress I 
wore, he touched it with the brim of his hat : " Yes, you 
will have sore trouble on this score, to say nothing of 
other things ; but don't let them beat you ! When your 
back is to the wall, don't give up ! but at a last pinch turn 
to me, Clara Morris, and if I don't know how to help you 
out, I know somebody who will ! She " 

Steps, running steps, were coming down the passage- 
way, then tall, dead-white with anger, Mr. Daly stood 
in the doorway. He almost gasped the words : " What 
does this mean, sir ? " then angrily to me : " Leave the 
room at once ! " 

Flushing at the tone, I bent my head and moved toward 



MR. GOULD OFFERS HELP 305 

the door, when, calm and clear, came the words : " Good- 
night, Miss Morris, please remember ! " 

Mr. Daly seemed beside himself with anger. " Mr. 
Gould," he cried (my heart gave a jump at the name; to 
save my life I could not help glancing back at them), 
" how dare you pass the stage-door ? You have no more 
right here than has any other stranger! Your conduct, 
sir " 

The gray, blazing eyes of the speaker were met by Mr. 
Gould's, calm, cold, hard as steel, and his voice, low and 
level, was saying : " We will not discuss my conduct 
here, if you please — your office perhaps," as I fled down 
the entry to my own room. 

Mr. Daly sent for me at the end of the play to demand 
my story of the unexpected meeting. Had I received any 
note, any message beforehand? Had we any common 
acquaintance? What had he said to me — word for 
word, what had he said? 

I thought of the gentle voice, the piercing eyes that 
had grown so kind, the friendly promise, and somehow 
I felt it would be scoffed at — I rebelled. I would only 
generalize. He had called me an honest girl, had said 
the city praised me; but when I got home I told my 
mother all, who was greatly surprised, since she had had 
only the newspaper Gould in her mind — a sort of hu- 
man spider, who wove webs — strong webs — that caught 
and held his fellow-men. 

His words came true. I saw trouble of many kinds 
and colors. More than once I thought of his promise, 
but I had learned much ill of human nature in a limited 
time, and I was afraid of everyone. Knowing much of 
poor human nature now, and looking back to that even- 
ing, recalling every tone, every shade of expression, I 
am forced to believe Mr. Jay Gould was perfectly honest 
and sincere in his offer of assistance. 

If this incident seems utterly incredible at first, it is 
because you are thinking of Mr. Gould wholly in his 
character of " The Wizard of Wall Street : " but turn to 



306 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

the domestic side of the man, think of his undying love 
for, his unbroken loyalty and devotion to, the wife of his 
choice, who, as mother of his little flock, never ceased 
to be his sweetheart. 

Is it so improbable, then, that his heart, made tender 
by love for one dear woman, sheltered and protected, 
might feel a throb of pity for another woman, unshel- 
tered and alone, whose poverty he saw would be a cruel 
stumbling-block in her narrow path? I think not. 

Who that " she " was whose aid he would have asked 
in my behalf I do not know, can never know; but it 
always gives me an almost childish pleasure to imagine 
it was the sweet, strong woman who was his wife. At 
all events, Mr. Gould that night furnished me with a 
pleasant memory, and that is a thing to be thankful for. 

The first time I saw Mr. Fisk in the green-room he 
was surrounded by a smiling, animated party, and as he 
advanced a step, expectantly, I disappeared. I have been 
told that he laughed at his own disappointment and the 
suddenness of some claim upon my attention. The sec- 
ond time, I was in the room when he entered, and at my 
swift departure he reddened visibly, and, after a moment, 
said : " If you were not all such good friends of mine, 
I should think someone had been making a bugaboo of 
me to scare that young woman." 

" Oh/' laughed one of the men, " she's from the West 
and is a bit wild yet." 

" Well," he replied, " it doesn't matter where she's 
from, New York's got her now and means to keep her. 
I'd like to offer her a word of welcome and congratula- 
tion, but she won't give a chap any margin," and he re- 
sumed his conversation. 

The third time, he was alone in the room, and as I 
backed hastily out he followed me. I ran — so did he 
— but as that was too ridiculous I stopped at his call 
and, turning, faced him. He removed his hat and hur- 
riedly said : " I beg your pardon for forcing myself upon 
your attention, Miss Morris, but any man with a grain 



OUR THEATRE LANDLORD 307 

of self-respect would demand an explanation of such 
treatment as I have received from you. Come now, you 
are a brave girl, an honest girl — tell me, please, why 
you avoid me as if I were the plague. Why, good Lord ! 
your eyes are all but jumping out of your head! Are 
you afraid even to be seen listening to me?" Suddenly 
he stopped, his own words had given him an idea. His 
eyes snapped angrily. " Well, I'll be blessed ! " he ex- 
claimed; then he came closer. He took my hand and 
asked : " Miss Morris, have you been putting these slights 
on me by order? " 

I was confused, I was frightened; I remembered the 
anger Mr. Gould's presence had aroused, and this was 
an actual breech of orders. I stammered : "I — oh, I 
just happened to be busy, you know." 

I glanced anxiously about me ; he replied : " Yes, you 
were very busy to-night, sitting in the green-room doing 
nothing — yet you ran as if I were a leper. Tell me, 
little woman — don't be afraid — have you been obeying 
an order? " 

" If you please — if you please ! " was all I could say. 

He looked steadily at me, lifted my hand to his lips, 
and said, with a compassionate sigh : " Bread and butter 
comes high in New York, doesn't it, child? There, I 
won't worry you any longer, but Brother Daly and I will 
hold a little love-feast over this matter." And with a 
laugh he returned to the green-room, where I could hear 
him singing " Lucy Long " to himself. 

A fortnight later, rinding him again surrounded by the 
company, he laughingly called out to me : " Don't run 
away, the embargo is raised. It won't cost you a cent 
to shake hands and be friendly ! " And as I seated my- 
self in the place he made beside him, he added, low: 
" And no advantage taken of it outside the theatre." 

He used so many queer, old-fashioned words, such as 
" chipper," "tuckered," "I swan!" "mean tyke," etc., 
that I once said to him : " I'm afraid you have washed 
your face in a pail by the pump ere this, Mr. Fisk ? " 



308 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

He laughed, and responded : " I'm afraid I used to 
be sent back to do it better, when I had first to break the 
ice to get to the water in the pail, Miss Guesswell ! " 

And then he gave a funny imitation of a boy washing 
his face in icy water, by wetting his fingers and drawing 
a circle about each eye and his mouth. He called his 
wife Lucy. Heaven knows whether it really was her 
name, but he always referred to her as Lucy. He was 
very fond of her, in spite of appearances, and proud of 
her, too. He said to me once : " She is no hair-lifting 
beauty, my Lucy, just a plump, wholesome, big-hearted, 
commonplace woman, such as a man meets once in a life- 
time, say, and then gathers her into the first church he 
comes to, and seals her to himself. For you see these 
commonplace women, like common-sense, are apt to be- 
come valuable as time goes on ! " 

When anyone praised some wife, he would look up and 
say : " Wife — whose wife ? What wife ? Bring your 
wives along, I ain't afraid to measure my Lucy with 'em. 
For, look here, you mustn't judge Lucy by her James ! " 

A divorce case was before the courts, and it was 
much discussed everywhere. The wife had been jealous 
and suspicious, and blond hairs (she was very dark 
herself) and strange hair-pins held a ludicrous promi- 
nence in the evidence. " Ah ! " said Fisk, " that's not 
the kind of a wife I have ! Never, never does Lucy sur- 
prise me with a visit, God bless her! No, she always 
telegraphs me when she's coming, and I — I clear up 
and have a warm welcome for her, and then she's pleased, 
and that pleases me, and we both enjoy our visit. Hang'd 
if we don't! And just to show you what a hero — yes, 
a hero — she is, and, talking of hair-pins, let me tell you 
now. You know those confounded crooked ones, with 
three infernal crinkles in the middle to keep them from 
falling out of the hair ? Those English chorus-girls wear 
them, I'm told. Well, one day Lucy comes to see me. 
Oh, she had sent word as usual, and everything was 
cleared up (I supposed) as usual, and George, my man, 



JUST A PLAIN HERO 309 

was laying out some clothes for me, when Lucy, smooth- 
ing her hand over the sofa-cushion, picks up and holds 
to the light an infernal crinkled hair-pin. George turned 
white and looked pleadingly at me. I saw myself in 
court fighting a divorce like the devil ; and then, after an 
awful, perspiring silence, my Lucy says — she that has 
worn straight pins all her life : ' James, that is a lazy 
and careless woman that cares for your rooms. It's three 
weeks to-day since I left for home, and here is one of 
my hair-pins lying on the sofa ever since ! ' 

"If she had put it in her hair I should have thought her 
really deceived in the matter, but when she dropped it 
in the fire, I knew she was just a plain hero! I walked 
over and knelt down and said : ' Thank you, Lucy,' while 
I pretended to tie her shoe. George was so upset that 
he dropped the studs twice over he was trying to put 
into a shirt-front. Oh, I tell you my Lucy can't be beat ! " 

The time he won the name of " Jubilee Jim," when 
the whole country was laughing over his triumphant visit 
to Boston with his regiment, he made this unsmiling ex- 
planation of the matter : 

" You see, the Ninth and I were both tickled over the 
invitation to visit Boston, and as there were so many of 
us I paid the expenses myself. Being proud of the regi- 
ment and anxious it should be acquainted with all real 
American institutions, I arranged for it to stay over 
Sunday, for there were dozens of the boys who had never 
even seen a slice of real Boston brown-bread or a crock- 
baked bean — and a Boston Sunday breakfast was to be 
the educational feature of the visit. Everything was 
lovely, until the Ninth suddenly felt a desire to pray, as 
well as to eat, and I'll be switched on to a side-track if the 
minister of that big church didn't begin to kick like a steer, 
and finally refuse to let us pray in his shop. Now,' if 
there's anything that will make a man hot as blazes in a 
minute, it's choking him off when he wants to pray. 
Some sharply pointed and peppery words were exchanged 
on the subject. I suppose our numbers rather muddled 



310 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

up his schedule, but if he'd said so quietly I could have 
straightened out his heavenly time-table so that there 
would have been no collision between trains of prayer. 
But no, instead of that, he slams the doors of his church 
in our visiting faces, and, in act at least, tells us to go 
to — what's that polite word now that means h — ? What 
— what do you call it sheol? Shucks ! that word won't 
become popular — hasn't got any snap to it! Well, the 
boys were mighty blue, they thought the visit was off. 
But I got 'em into the armory, and I said, what amounted 
to this, I says: 'This visit ain't off; Boston is right as 
a trivet, and wants us! We ain't bucking against the 
city, but against that sanctified stingyike who don't want 
anyone in heaven but his own gang; but you see here, 
when the Ninth Regiment wants to pray, I'm d — d if it 
don't do it. Who cares for that church, anyway, where 
you'd be crowded like sardines and have your corns 
crushed to agony! We'll go to Boston, boys, and we'll 
praise the Lord on the Common, if they'll let us, and if 
they won't, we'll march out to the suburbs and have a 
perfect jubilee of prayer ! ' And what do you think," he 
cried, grinning like a mischievous boy, as he twisted the 
long, waxed ends of his mustache to needle-like points, 
" what do you think — we prayed out of doors, with all 
female Boston and her attendants looking on and say- 
ing amen; and, oh, by George ! I sent a man to see, and 
' stingyike's ' church was nearly empty ! Ha ! ha ! I tell 
you what it is, when a New York soldier wants to pray, 
he prays, or something gives ! " After that he was Ju- 
bilee Jim. 

His growing stoutness annoyed him greatly, yet he 
was the first to poke fun at what he called his " unmili- 
tary figure." One evening I said : " Mr. Fisk, I'm afraid 
you have cast too much bread upon the waters ; it's said 
to be very fattening food when it returns ? " 

" Well, I swan ! " he answered, " I'll never give an- 
other widow a pass over any road of mine — whether 
she's black, mixed, or grass, for that's about all the bread- 
casting I do." 



MR. FISKS GENEROSITY 311 

This was not true, for he was very kind-hearted 
and generous, especially to working people who were in 
trouble. His " black widow " was one in full mourning, 
his " mixed widow " was the poor soul who had only a 
cheap black bonnet or a scanty veil topping her ordinary 
colored clothing to express her widowed state, while the 
" grasses " were, in his own words : " All those women 
who were not married — but ought to be." 

Whenever he gave a diamond or an India shawl to a 
French opera-bouffe singer the world heard of it, and 
the value grew and grew daily, and that publicity grati- 
fied his strange distorted vanity, but the lines of widows, 
sometimes with hungry little flocks hanging at their 
skirts, that he passed over roads, the discharged men he 
" sneaked " (his own word) back into positions again, 
because of their suffering brood, he kept silent about. 

He never got angry at the papers, no matter what ab- 
surdity they printed about him. At the time of the riot 
some paper declared he had left his men and had climbed 
a high board fence in order to escape from danger. In 
referring to the article at the theatre one evening, he said, 
in reproachful tones : " Now wasn't that a truly stupid 
lie ? " He rose, and placing his hands where his waist 
should have been, he went on mournfully : " Look at 
me! I look like a sprinter, don't I? If you just could 
see me getting into that uniform — no offence, ladies, I 
don't mean no harm. Oh, Lord, who has a small gram- 
mar about them? Well, when I'm in the clothes, it takes 
two men's best efforts, while I hold my breath, to clasp 
my belt — and they say I climbed that high fence ! Say, 
I'd give five thousand dollars down on the nail if I had 
the waist to do that act with ! " 

He was not only a natural comedian, but he had an 
instinct for the dramatic in real life, and he was quick 
to grasp his opportunity at the burning of Chicago. 'His 
relief train must be rushed through first — he must beg 
personally; and then — and then, oh, happy thought! 
all the city knew the value he placed upon the beautiful 



312 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

jet black stallion he rode in the Park. Out, then, he and 
his stall-mate came — splendid, fiery, satin-coated aris- 
tocrats! And taking their places before a great express 
wagon, went prancing and curvetting their way from 
door to door, Mr. Fisk stopping wherever a beckoning 
hand appeared at a window. And bundles of clothing, 
boxes of provisions, anything, everything that people 
would give, he gathered up with wild haste, and brief, 
warm thanks, and rushed to the express offices for proper 
sorting and packing. Of course that personal service was 
not really necessary. A modest man would not have 
done it, but he was spectacular. His act pleased the 
people, too, and really many were moved to give by it. 
Their fancy was caught by the picture of the be- 
diamonded Jubilee Jim placing himself and his valuable 
horses at the service of the terror-stricken, homeless 
Chicagoans. 

Though he was himself the butt of most of his jokes, 
he often expressed his opinions in terms as conclusive 
and quite as funny as those of his world-famous reply 
to the sanctimonious fence-committee, who, claiming that 
the laying of his railroad had destroyed the greater part 
of the old fence about a country graveyard, demanded 
that he should replace it with a new one. Scarcely were 
the words out of their lips than, swift as a flash, came 
the characteristic answer : " What under heaven do you 
want a fence round a graveyard for? The poor chaps 
that are in there can't get out, and, I'll take my Bible 
oath, those that are out don't want to get in! Fence 
around a graveyard ! I guess not ; I know a dozen bet- 
ter ways of spending money than that ! " 

I heard much of his generosity on benefit nights, but 
personally I never tested it. Before my benefit night 
arrived, Mr. Edward Stokes had caught Mr. Fisk on a 
walled-in staircase, as in a trap, and had shot him down, 
and then, in that time of terror and excitement, Jubilee 
Jim proved that whatever else he had been called — man 
of sin, fraud, trickster, clown — he was not a coward! 



MR. FISK'S SAD END 313 

With wonderful self-control he asked, as the clothing 
was being cut from his stricken body : "Is this the end 
of me; am I going to die, doctor? " 

And when the man addressed made an evasive and 
soothing answer, that his hopeless eyes contradicted, 
James Fisk testily continued : " I want to know the 
truth!" Then, more gently: "I'm not afraid to die, 
doctor, but / am afraid of leaving things all at sixes and 
sevens! This is the end of me, isn't it? Well, do what 

you can, and, George, send for and for [his 

lawyers], and I will do what I can. When can Lucy 
get here ? " 

And so he quickly and calmly made all possible use 
of his ebbing strength — of the flying moments — dis- 
proving at least one charge, that of cowardice. He was 
dying, and crowds were waiting about the hotel where 
he lay, hungry for any morsel of news from the victim's 
bedside. That was the situation as I went to the theatre. 
I dressed and went through one act, then, as I came upon 
the stage in the second act, I faced Mr. Fisk's private 
box. I glanced casually at it, and stopped stock-still, the 
words dying on my lips. A shiver ran over me — some- 
one had entered the box since the first act and had low- 
ered the heavy red curtains and drawn them close together. 

No one could fail to understand. The flood of light, 
the waves of music reached to the edge of the box only 
— within were silence, darkness! The laughing owner 
would enter there no more, forever ! 

With swelling throat I stood looking up. Another 
actor entered, saw the direction of my eyes, followed it, 
and next moment tears were on his cheeks. Then peo- 
ple in the house, noticing our distress, glanced in that 
same direction, and here and there a man rose and slipped 
out. Here and there a handkerchief was pressed to a 
face, for without a word being spoken all knew, by the 
blank, closed box, that Mr. Fisk was dead. 

I never knew a more trying evening for actors, for all 
knew him well — liked him and grieved for him. I was 



314 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

the only mere acquaintance, yet I was deeply moved and 
found it hard to act as usual before that mute, blank 
box — hard as though the body of its one-time owner 
lay within. 

So he made his exit — dramatic to the last. A strange 
character — shrewd, sharp, vain, ostentatious, loving his 
diamonds, velvet coats, white gloves. The monumental 
silver water-pitchers in his private boxes were too foul 
to drink from generally, but then the public could see the 
mass of silver. A bit of a mountebank, beyond a question, 
but with a temper so sunny and a heart so generous that 
in spite of all his faults Jubilee Jim had a host of friends. 



CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH 

A Search for Tears — I Am Punished in " Saratoga " for 
the Success of " Man and Wife " — I Win Mr. Daly's 
Confidence — We Become Friends. 

THE people who have known happiness without 
the alloying if or but are few and far between. 
" Yes, of course we are happy — but," " I should 
be perfectly and completely happy — •//' you hear peo- 
ple saying every day; and so in my case, having been 
admitted into fellowship with the men and women of 
the company, who were a gracious and charming crowd, 
and receiving hearty approval each night from the great 
Public, by whose favor I and mine existed, I was grate- 
ful and would have been quite happy — but for a brand- 
new difficulty that suddenly loomed up, large, and wide, 
and solid before me. 

Never in my life had I been in a play of a longer run 
than one week. Imagine, then, my misery when I found 
this play, that was already old to me at the end of the 
first week, was likely to go on for a long time to come. 
It was not mere ennui over the repetition of the same 
lines, night after night, that troubled me, it was some- 
thing far more serious. I had made my hit with the 
public by moving the people's feelings to the point of 
tears ; but to do that I had first to move my own heart, 
for, try as I would, no amount of careful acting had the 
desired effect. / had to shed tears or they would not. 
Now that is not an easy thing to do to order, in cold 
blood. While the play is new one's nerves are strained 
almost to the breaking point — one is over-sensitive and 
the feelings are easily moved ; then the pathetic words 
I am speaking touch my heart, tears rush to my eyes, 

315 



316 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

tears are heard in my voice, and other hearts respond 
swiftly; but when you have calmed down, when you 
have repeated the lines so often that they no longer mean 
anything to you, what are you to do then? 

Really and truly there were days when I was nearly 
out of my mind with terror lest I should not be able to 
cry that night ; for those tears of mine had a commercial 
value as well as an artistic, and Mr. Daly was swift to 
reproach me if the handkerchief display in front was not 
as great as usual. This sounds absurd perhaps to a 
reader, but heaven knows it was tragic enough to me. 
I used to agonize all day over the question of tears for 
the night, and I have seen the time when even my own 
imaginary tomb failed to move me. 

One night, when my eyes were dry as bones, and my 
voice as hard as stone, and Mr. Daly was glaring whitely 
at me from the entrance, I had suddenly a sort of vision 
of that dethroned actress whom, back in Cleveland, I 
had seen uncrowned. I saw her quivering face, her 
stricken eyes, and a sudden rush of tears blinded me. 
Later, Mr. Daly said : " What a tricky little wretch you 
are. I thought you were going to throw that scene away, 
without a single tear to-night. I suppose you were doing 
it to aggravate me, though ? " 

Goodness knows I was grateful enough myself for the 
tears when they did come, and I got an idea from that 
experience that has served me all the years since. Every- 
thing else — love, hate, dignity, passion, vulgarity, deli- 
cacy, duplicity, all, everything can be assumed to order ; 
but, for myself, tears are not mechanical, they will not 
come at will. The heart must be moved, and if the part 
has lost its power then I must turn to some outside in- 
cident that has power. It may be from a book, it may 
be from real life — no matter, if Only its recalling starts 
tears to weary eyes. 

Thus in " Alixe " it was not for my lost lover I often- 
est wept such racing tears, but for poor old Tennessee's 
partner as he buried his worthless dead, with his honest 



LEARNING FRENCH 317 

old heart breaking before your eyes. While in " Camille " 
many and many a night her tears fell fast over the 
memory of a certain mother's face as she told me of the 
moment when, returning from the burial of her only 
child, the first snowflakes began to whirl through the still, 
cold air, and she went mad with the anguish of leaving 
the little tender body there in the cold and dark, and 
flung herself from the moving carriage and ran, scream- 
ing, back to the small rough pile of earth to shelter it 
with her own living body. 

So there is my receipt for sudden tears. I being — 
thank heaven — a cheerful body, and given to frequent 
laughter, may laugh in peace up to the last moment, if I 
have only stowed away some heart-breaking incident that 
I can recall at the proper moment. It seems like taking 
a mean advantage of a tender heart, I know — what Bret 
Harte would call " playing it low down " on it ; but what 
else could I do? I leave it to you. What could you do 
to make yourself cry seven times a week, for nine or 
ten months a year ? 

Then there was another great change in the new life. 
I was used to rehearsing every day, and, lo! when once 
a play was on here, there followed weeks, perhaps months, 
when there were no rehearsals. Mercy! I could never 
afford to waste all that time; but what could I do? 
" One and two and three and," I could not afford ; but, 
oh, if I could take some French lessons, what a help they 
would be to me in the proper pronunciation of names 
upon the stage. But I did not want lessons from some 
ignorant person, or someone who had a strange dialect. 
I have all my life had such a horror of unlearning things. 
I knew a real French teacher would charge me a real " for- 
true " price, and my heart was doubtful — but see how 
fate was good to me. There was in Tenth Street a little 
daughter of a well-known French professor — he taught 
in a certain college. The daughter was eager to teach. 
The father said : " Who will trust so young a girl to 
instruct them ? If you only had a first and second pupil, 



318 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

you would be self-supporting. French teachers are in 
great demand, but where shall you find that first pupil 
— tell me that, ma iille. No matter how small your 
charge, the question will be, where have you taught? 
No one will wish to be the first pupil." 

But, fine old French gentleman as he was, he was mis- 
taken nevertheless, for I was willing, nay, eager, to be 
that first pupil, and she found my name of so much value 
to her in obtaining a full class that she became abso- 
lutely savage in her fell determination to make me speak 
her beloved language correctly. In spite of her eighteen 
years she looked full fourteen, and her dignity was a 
fearful thing to contemplate, until she had a chocolate- 
cream in one cheek and a dimple in the other, then some- 
how the dignity broke in the middle and the lesson pro- 
gressed through much laughter. 

She was not beautiful, but pretty and charming to such 
an extent that, within the year, she became Madame, 
carried her own chocolates, and was absolutely vicious 
over irregular verbs. Dear little woman — I remember 
her gratefully, and also remember that, later on, I paid 
just six times as much per lesson to an elaborate person, 
well-rouged, who taught me nothing, lest she might 
offend me in the act. I know this to be true, because 
one day I deliberately mispronounced and let tenses run 
wild, to see if she would have the honesty or courage 
to correct me; but she looked a trifle surprised, rear- 
ranged her bangles, and let it all pass. I then resigned 
my position as pupil, that she might give her very ques- 
tionable assistance as teacher to some other scholar, 
shorter of temper, and more sensitive to rebuke or cor- 
rection than I was. 

At the theatre I think everyone liked me well enough, 
save Mr. Daly. He disliked me because I simply could 
not learn to treat him with reverence. I had the greatest 
admiration for him, I showed him respect by obeying 
him implicitly, but if he was funny I laughed, if he gave 
me an opportunity to twist his words absurdly I accepted 
it as gleefully as if he had been the gas-man. 



NO INDIVIDUAL SUCCESSES 319 

But two things happened, and lo! my manager's atti- 
tude toward me changed completely. Mr. Daly was con- 
vinced that no man or woman could bear decently a 
sudden success. He was positive that no head could 
stand it. When I made no demand for my promised in- 
crease of salary, but went pinching along as best I could, 
he only said to himself : " She will be all the worse when 
her head does begin to turn." 

One day a certain newspaper man looked in at his 
office, and said : " Oh, I have something here about the 
play, and I've given a few pretty good lines to your Hud 
(Clara Morris) : do you want to look at them? " 

" I want them cut out ! " sharply ordered Mr. Daly. 

" Cut out? " repeated the surprised man. " Why, she's 
the play — or mighty near it. I thought you'd want her 
spoken of most particularly ? " 

And then Mr. Daly made his famous speech : " I don't 
want individual successes, sir, in my theatre! I want 
my company kept at a level. I put them all in a line, 
and then I watch, and if one head begins to bob up above 
the others, I give it a crack and send it down again ! " 

I had heard that story in several forms, when one day 
I spoke of it to Mr. Daly, and he calmly acknowledged 
the speech, as I have given it above, adding the words: 
" And next week I'm going to give Mr. Crisp's head a 
crack, he's bobbing up, I see ! " 

The play of " Saratoga," by Mr. Bronson Howard, had 
been read to the company, and, after the custom of actors 
the world over, they began to cast the characters them- 
selves — such a part for Lewis, such a one for Miss 
Davenport. The splendid Irish part for Amy Ames (of 
course, with her wonderful brogue), etc.; almost every- 
one remarking that there was nothing for me. Lewis 
said: "Well, Clara, you're out of this play, sure. Will 
you study Greek or the Rogue's Vocabulary? for I'll 
wager a hat to a hair-pin you'll be turning a good head 
of hair gray over some nonsense of the kind — good 
Lord!" 



320 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

For M. Benot was holding toward me a thin little part, 
saying : " For you, Miss Morris." 

Mr. Daly stood at the far end of the room ; he was 
watching me. The part was a walking lady of second 
quality. It was an indignity to give it to me. Like 
lightning I recalled the terms of my contract — I realized 
my helplessness. 

I rolled up the small part, calmly rose, and smiling a 
comprehending smile into Mr. Daly's disappointed eyes, 
for which he could have choked me, I sauntered out of 
the room. At home I wept bitterly. It was undeserved ! 
I had borne so much from gratitude, and here I was 
being treated just as a fractious, brain-turned, presum- 
ing person might have been treated for a punishment. 
However, my tears were only seen at home. At the the- 
atre I rehearsed faithfully and good-temperedly, and 
writhed smilingly at the expressions of surprise over the 
cast, and for one hundred nights I was thus made to do 
penance for having made a success in " Man and Wife." 
Truly I had got a good " crack " for bobbing up ; still 
my patient, uncomplaining acceptance of the part had 
made an impression on Mr. Daly, and he often expressed 
his regret, later on, for the error he made as to the pos- 
sible turning of my head. 

Then came the second happening. To Mr. Daly a 
confidant was an absolute necessity of existence. If they 
had tastes in common, so much the happier for Mr. Daly, 
but such tastes were not imperatively demanded, neither 
was sex of importance — male or female would answer; 
but the one great, indispensable, and essential quality was 
the ability to respect a confidence, the power to hold a 
tongue. 

In the early weeks of the season he had been drifting 
into a friendship with a man in the company, and had 
told him, in strictest confidence, of a certain plan he was 
forming, and twenty-four hours later he heard that plan 
being discussed in one of the dressing-rooms. It had 
traveled by way of husband to wife, wife to friend, friend 



A HINT OF BETTER THINGS 321 

to her husband, and husband No. 2 was busy in explain- 
ing it to all and sundry. 

That ended the career of one gentleman as friend and 
confidant to Mr. Daly. One day after rehearsal I was 
detained on the stage to discuss a fashion-plate he was 
tearing from a magazine. A short poem caught his eye. 
He glanced at it carelessly, then looked more closely at 
the lines, and began to mumble the words: 

" She of the silver foot — fair goddess — " 

His brows were knit, his eyes looked away, dreamily. 
Again he repeated the words, adding, impatiently : " I 
can't place that silver foot — the bow, the lyre, yes ; but 
the foot? Oh, probably it's a mere figure of speech," 
and he turned to the plate again, when I said : " Perhaps 
it means Thetis, you know, silver-footed queen — daugh- 
ter of old sea-god." 

His whole face lit up with pleasure. " That's it," he 
said, " that's whom it means ; but are you sure the word 
* queen ' belongs right there ? " 

" No," I laughed, " I have grave doubts about my 
1 queen,' but I'm solid as a rock on the rest of the line." 

Then he repeated, with lingering enjoyment : " ' Thetis, 
silver-footed, silver-footed, daughter of old sea-god.' Do 
you know I often wonder why someone does not make 
a play of mythological characters — a play after the mod- 
ern method I mean." 

" Oh," I broke in, " then I shall have a rest, for I am 
not beautiful enough for even a walking-lady divinity." 

" Ah," he said, kindly, " you are not going to do any 
more walking ladies — divine or human. I have already 
in my possession a play with a great part for you. Bou- 
cicault wrote it, and " 

He stopped suddenly, all the brightness went out of his 
face. He played nervously with his watch-guard. He 
started out with : " Miss Morris, I wish — " stopped, 
frowned; then impatiently took up the picture-plate, 



322 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

pointed out which dress he wanted me to wear, and curtly 
dismissed me. 

I understood him perfectly. In a genial moment he 
had unintentionally given me some information which he 
now regretted, though he would not stoop to ask my 
silence; and he felt sure that I would at once boast of 
the great part that was to be mine; and I went home, 
one' broad smile of malicious satisfaction, for in spite of 
my seemingly-careless speech, I had, by long and careful 
training, acquired the fine art of holding my tongue about 
other people's affairs, even though I ascended to the roof 
to babble to the city of my own; and Mr. Daly would 
be again disappointed, as he had been the day I accepted, 
without protest, the walking-lady part. 

That night he barely nodded in silent recognition of 
my " Good-evening, sir." Next morning he kept his eyes 
averted from me when he gave me any stage directions; 
but whenever or wherever we women formed a little 
group to chat, there Mr. Daly, like a jack-in-the-box, 
suddenly sprang into evidence. It was very funny — he 
was simply waiting for me to repeat my interesting in- 
formation. 

Two, three days passed, then a certain kindness began 
to show in his manner toward me. Quite suddenly, and 
of course unasked, he gave me a dressing-room to my- 
self. I was delighted! Hesitatingly, I tapped at the 
door of his office. I had never stood there before, save 
by order. I said : " I will not come in, Mr. Daly, I only 
wished to thank you for the room you have given me. 
It will be a great comfort, for we are terribly crowded in 
the other one." 

But he rose, took my hand, and said : " You deserve 
anything and everything this theatre can provide for 
you." Drawing me to a chair, he placed me in it, while 
still speaking : " And I am proud of you. You are a girl 
in ten thousand! for you can respect a confidence." 

I was very much embarrassed by such unexpect- 
ed warmth, and laughing nervously I said : " Even 



MR. DALY'S CHARACTERISTICS 323 

when the confidence was unintentional and deeply re- 
gretted ? " 

" Ah ! " he answered, " you saw that, did you ? Well, 
I've been listening and waiting to hear about the ' new 
play ' ever since, but not a word have you dropped, and 
I did not ask for silence either. You are a woman worth 
talking to, and I shall never be afraid to tell you things 
I am going to do, and " 

And straightway he told me all about the new play — 
its good points, its bad ones, and where he feared for it ; 
and to show you how true was his judgment, the play, 
which later on gave me a great personal success, was 
itself a failure from the very causes he then indicated. 

And so it came about that Mr. Daly, putting aside his 
dislike for me — coming to enjoy my sense of the ridicu- 
lous, instead of resenting it — confided many, many plans 
and dreams, likes and dislikes, hates and loves to me. 
We quarreled spitefully over politics, fought furiously 
over religion, wickedly bowed down and worshipped be- 
fore odds and ends of lovely carvings or precious cloi- 
sonne, to whose beauty I first introduced him, and hung 
in mutual rapture over rare old engravings. 

Thus I came to know him fairly well. A man with 
unbounded ambition, a man of fine and delicate tastes, 
with a passionate love of beauty — in form, color, sound. 
I have known him to turn a sentence, exquisitely, word by 
word, slowly repeating the line, as though he were tast- 
ing its beauty, as well as hearing it. Interested in the 
occult and the inscrutable — a man of many tastes, but of 
one single purpose — every power and acquirement were 
brought to the service of the stage. 

In love he was mutability personified. In friendship, 
always exigent. Now sullenly silent, now rapidly talk- 
ative, whimsical, changeable, he was ever lavishly gen- 
erous and warm-hearted. And it is a comfort to know 
that in one respect at least I proved satisfactory during 
the friendship that lasted as long as I remained in the 
theatre, since I never, even by chance, betrayed his con- 
fidence. 



324 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

When we had finally parted, a man one day mentioned 
me to Mr. Daly, expecting to bring forth some disparag- 
ing remark. There was a pause while my former man- 
ager gazed out at the heavily falling rain, then he said, 
quietly : " When you drop a thing in a well, it can go 
no further. Clara Morris is a sort of human well, what 
you confide to her goes no further. Some people call 
that ' discretion/ I call it loyalty. I — I guess you'll 
get a wetting on the way home." And acting on that 
hint the surprised gentleman withdrew. He told me 
himself of the occurrence, and I confess that Mr. Daly's 
words gave me a thrill of pleasure. 

After those two occurrences I found my theatrical life 
pleasanter, for I love my kind and wish to live at peace 
with them — and Mr. Daly's dislike had disturbed and 
distressed me ; therefore, when that had been conquered, 
great was my contentment. A sympathetic word, a com- 
prehending glance, a friendly smile, proving ample in- 
demnification for former injuries. 

Nor could I be made to accept at full value the cruel 
gibes, the bitter sarcasms reported to me as coming from 
Miss Agnes Ethel. For some reason there was a dis- 
tinct effort made to arouse in me an enmity against that 
lady. Unpleasant stories had been repeated to me dur- 
ing the run of " Man and Wife " ; some of them had 
wounded me, but I had only listened silently. Then one 
night I met her — a slender, auburn-haired, appealing 
creature, with clinging fingers, sympathetic voice, and 
honest eyes — a woman whose charming and cordial 
manner not only won my admiration, but convinced me 
she was incapable of the brutalities charged to her. 

So when " Jezebel " was announced, and it was known 
that Mr. Daly desired Miss Ethel and me both to appear in 
it, great interest was aroused, only to be crushed by Miss 
Ethel's refusal to play the part allotted to her. I think 
she was in error, for the two parts were perfectly bal- 
anced. Mine was the wicked, even murderous advent- 
uress; hers the gentle, sweet, and triumphant wife. I 



MISS ETHEL LEAVES US 325 

had the first act ; she was not in that, but Mr. Daly's idea 
was that her victory in the last act — where I was simply 
pulverized for my sins — evened things up. But Miss 
Ethel listened to the advice of outside friends. Her re- 
lations with Mr. Daly were already strained, and her 
second refusal of a part was the beginning of the end. 

Mr. Daly himself informed me that she said her part 
was secondary, but that the real difficulty sprang from 
an earlier wrangle between them, with which I had noth- 
ing to do. Yet there were persons who, with great in- 
dignation, informed me that Miss Ethel had positively 
" refused to appear upon the stage in any play with me 
— a mere vulgar outsider ! " 

But "vulgar outsider" was just a touch too strong; 
" malice had o'erleaped self " and fallen on the other side. 
The silly story even reached some of the papers, but that 
did not increase my belief in its truth. 

Mr. Daly and Miss Ethel parted company before, or 
at, the end of the season, and while I never worked with* 
her, later on I privately received such gracious courtesies 
from her kindly hands that the name of Agnes Ethel 
must ever ring pleasantly in my ears 



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH 

A Study of Stage-Management — I Am Tricked into Sign- 
ing a New Contract. 

BEFORE I came under the management of Mr. 
Daly, I may say I never really knew what stage- 
management meant. He was a young man then; 
he had had, I believe, his own theatre but one season 
before I joined his forces, yet his judgment was as ripe, 
his decisions were as swift and sure, his eye for effect was 
as true, his dramatic instinct as keen as well could be. 

We never exchanged so much as a frown, let alone a 
hasty word, over work. I realized that he had the en- 
tire play before his " mind's eye," and when he told me 
to do a thing, I should have done it, even had I not 
understood why he wished it done. But he always gave 
a reason for things, and that made it easy to work under 
him. 

His attention to tiny details amazed me. One morn- 
ing, after Mr. Crisp had joined the company, he had to 
play a love-scene with me, and the " business " of the 
scene required him to hold me some time in his embrace. 
But Mr. Crisp's embrace did not suit Mr. Daly — no 
more did mine. Out he went, in front, and looked at us. 

" Oh," he cried, " confound it ! Miss Morris, relax — 
relax! lean on him — he won't break! That's better 
— but lean more ! lean as if you needed support ! What ? 
Yes, I know you don't need it — but you're in love, don't 
you see? and you're not a lady by a mile or two! For 
God's sake, Crisp, don't be so stiff and inflexible ! Here, 
let me show you ! " 

Up Mr. Daly rushed on to the stage, and taking Crisp's 
place, convulsed the company with his effort at acting 

326 



MR. DALY'S DRILLING 327 

the lover. Then back again to the front, ordering us to 
try that embrace again. 

" That's better ! " he cried ; " but hold her hand closer, 
tighter! not quite so high — oh, that's too low! Don't 
poke your arm out, you're not going to waltz. What in 
are you scratching her back for ? " 

It was too much; in spite of the awe in which Mr. 
Daly was held, everyone, Crisp included, screamed with 
laughter, while Mr. Daly fumed and fretted over the 
time that was being wasted. 

One of my early experiences of his way of directing 
a rehearsal made a deep impression upon me. In the 
play of " Jezebel " I had the title part. There were a 
number of characters on in the scene, and Mr. Daly 
wanted to get me across the stage, so that I should be 
out of hearing distance of two of the gentlemen. Now, 
in the old days, the stage-director would simply have 
said : " Cross to the Right," and you would have crossed 
because he told you to; but in Mr. Daly's day you had 
to have a reason for crossing the drawing-room, and so 
getting out of the two gentlemen's way — and a reason 
could not be found. 

Here are a few of the many rejected ideas : There was 
no guest for me to cross to in welcoming pantomime ; no 
piano on that side of the room for me to cross to and play 
on softly; ah, the fireplace! and the pretty warming of 
one foot ? But no, it was summer-time, that would not do. 
The ancient fancy-work, perhaps ? No, she was a human 
panther, utterly incapable of so domestic an occupation. 
The fan forgotten on the mantel-piece ? Ah, yes, that was 
it! you cross the room for that — and then suddenly I 
reminded Mr. Daly that he had, but a moment before, 
made a point of having me strike a gentleman sharply 
on the cheek with my fan. 

" Oh, confound it, yes ! " he answered, " and that's 
got to stand — that blow is good ! " 

The old, old device of attendance upon the lamp was 
suggested ; but the hour of the day was plainly given 



328 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

by one of the characters as three o'clock in the after- 
noon. 

These six are but few of the many rejected reasons 
for that one cross of the stage ; still Mr. Daly would not 
permit a motiveless action, and we came to a momentary 
standstill. Very doubtfully, I remarked : " I suppose a 
smelling-bottle would not be important enough to cross 
the room for ? " 

He brightened quickly — clouded over even more 
quickly : " Y-e-e-s ! N-o-o ! at least, not if it had never 
appeared before. But let me see — Miss Morris, you 
must carry that smelling-bottle in the preceding scene, 
and — and, yes, I'll just put in a line in your part, mak- 
ing you ask some one to hand it to you — that will nail 
attention to it, you see! Then in this scene, when you 
leave these people and cross the room to get your smell- 
ing-bottle from the mantel, it will be a perfectly natural 
action on your part, and will give the men their chance 
of explanation and warning." And at last we were free 
to move on to other things. 

Above all was he eager to have his stage present a 
home-like interior. Never shall I forget my amazement 
when I first saw a piece of furniture occupying the very 
centre of the stage, while I with others were reduced to 
acting in any scrap of room we could " scrooge " into, as 
children say. 

Long trains were fashionable then, and it was no un- 
common sight to see the lover standing with both feet 
firmly planted upon his lady's train while he implored her 
to fly with him — the poor man had to stand somewhere ! 
Miss Davenport, in one of her comedy scenes, having to 
move about a good deal on the crowded stage, finally 
wound her trailing skirts so completely about a chair that, 
at her exit, the chair went with her, causing a great laugh. 

One night a male character, having to say boastfully 
to me : "I have my hand upon a fortune ! " I added in 
an undertone : " And both feet upon my white satin 
dress! " at which he lost his grip (as the boys say) and 
laughed aloud — said laugh costing him a forfeit of fifty 



STAGE DISCIPLINE 329 

cents, which really should have been paid by me, as I 
was the guilty cause of that disastrous effect. But the 
gentleman was not only gallant but well used to being 
forfeited, and unconcernedly paid the penalty exacted. 

But really it was very distressing trying to make your 
way between pieces of furniture — stopping to release 
your skirts from first one thing and then another, and 
often destroying all the effect of your words by such ac- 
tion. One evening I petulantly observed to Mr. Daly: 
" I see now why one is only zvoolly in the West — in the 
East one gets the wool all rubbed off on unnecessary 
pedestals and centre-divans." 

He laughed first, then pulled up sharply, saying : " Per- 
haps you did not notice that your comment contained a 
criticism of my judgment, Miss Morris? If I think the 
furniture necessary, that is sufficient," and I gave him a 
military salute and ran down-stairs. At the foot Mr. 
George Brown and one of the pretty young women stood. 
She was saying : " Now if any of us had said there was 
too much crowding from that rubbishy old furniture, he 
would have made us pay a nice forfeit for it, but Miss 
Morris gets off scot-free ! " 

" Yes, I know," said Mr. Brown, " but then she amused 
him first with the idea of rubbing the Western wool off 
here, and you can't very well laugh and then turn around 
and forfeit the person who made you do it." 

And so I learned that if no detail was too small for Mr. 
Daly to consider carefully in his preparation of a play, so 
no detail of daily life in his theatre was too small for 
notice, consideration, and comment, and I resolved to try 
hard to curb my careless speech, lest it get me into trouble. 

Early during that first week my friend, John Norton, 
said to me : " Have you spoken to Mr. Daly about your 
salary yet ? " 

" Good gracious, no ! " I answered. 

" Well, but you should," he persisted ; " that is only 
business. You have made a great hit ; he promised you 
to double thirty-five dollars if you made a favorable im- 
pression." 



33o LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" Well," I cried, " wait till salary-day, and very likely 
I'll get it ; he will keep his word, only, for mercy's sake, 
give him a chance ! It would insult him were I to remind 
him, now, of his promise." 

I was content to wait, but Mr. Norton was anxious. 
Monday came and, tremblingly, I opened my envelope to 
find thirty-five dollars — no more, no less. I knew what 
anyone else would do, I knew I was valuable to Mr. Daly, 
but, oh, those years and years of repression — for so long 
a time to be seen — not heard, had been the law of my 
weary life, and now the old thrall was upon me, I simply 
could not demand my right. 

The tears fell fast as I went home, with that miserable 
wage in my hand. We were in such dreadful straits for 
clothing. Other needs we could hide, but not the need 
of outer garments. I was quite sick with disappointment 
and anxiety, yet I would not permit Mr. Norton to go and 
speak for me, as that would mean gossip as to his right 
to interfere. 

I used to plan out exactly what I was going to say, and 
start a little earlier to the theatre, that I might have time 
to see Mr. Daly and remind him of his promise, and then, 
when I got there, unconquerable shame overcame me — 
I could not ! 

Then one night Mr. Daly asked me to sign a contract 
for five years, with a certain rise in salary each year. I 
utterly refused. I knew that would mean absolute bond- 
age. He said he would raise my salary now, if I would 
sign; and I did actually whisper, that he had not kept 
his promise about this year's salary. 

He curtly answered : " Never mind this year — sign 
for five, and this season will then take care of itself ! " 

" No," I said, and yet again " No ! " " Mr. Daly," I 
cried, " I shall be grateful to you all the days of my life 
for giving me this chance in New York — you are treat- 
ing me badly, but I am grateful enough not to rebel. I 
will play for you every season of my life, if you want me ; 
I will never consider an offer without first telling you of 
it, but you must engage me but for one season at a time." 



SIGNING FOR A SEASON 331 

" Then you can go ! " he said. " All my people are en- 
gaged from three to five years — I will not break my rule 
for anyone ; so now you can choose ! " 

" Pardon me," I answered, huskily, " you chose for me 
when you told me to go ! " I bowed to him and went out, 
sore at heart and deeply wounded, for I was keeping si- 
lent as to his broken promise out of sheer gratitude for 
the opening he had given me. 

The letter-box for the company hung near his private 
office. One night, as he unlocked his door, he saw old 
man Keating (the stage-door man) sorting out letters for 
the various boxes. One caught Mr. Daly's eye, bearing 
the name of Wallack. He took it from Keating's hand ; 
it was addressed to Clara Morris. No one ever called Mr. 
Daly a dull man, and when he put two and two together, 
even in a hurry, he knew quite well that the result would 
be four ; and when he put the words, " Wallack's The- 
atre," and the address, " Clara Morris," together he knew 
equally well the result would be an offered engagement. 
Then Mr. Daly put back the letter and said sharply to 
the reverent Keating : " Whatever you do, don't let Miss 
Morris pass you when she comes in. Stop her before she 
takes her key. Remember, whether early or late, stop her 
anyway, and send her to my room. Tell her it is urgent 
— you understand? Before she gets her key (by the let- 
ter-box) I must see her! " 

Yes, he understood, for when I came in I was switched 
away from the key-board in a jiffy and rushed by the 
elbow to the governor's office, and even held there until 
the summons to enter answered the knock of the deter- 
mined and obedient Keating. 

Inside, Mr. Daly, smiling benignly, greeted me as one 
greets a naughty, spoiled child, and pulling me by my 
fingers toward his desk, showed me a contract outspread : 
" A contract for one season," he said, giving me a light 
tap on my ear. " Though you must promise silence on the 
subject, for there would be an outcry of favoritism if it 
were known that I broke a rule for you ! Salary ? oh, the 



332 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

salary is only fifty-five dollars, but we will balance that by 
my assistance in the matter of wardrobe. Whenever you 
have five dresses to buy I will provide three, which will 
belong to me afterward, of course — and — and just sign 
now, for I'm in a great haste, child, as I have an appoint- 
ment to keep ! Oh, you don't want any time to think over 
an engagement of just one season! You obstinate little 
block! and, by the way, I'll add five dollars a week to 
your present salary for the rest of the season, if you sign 
this — yes, that's the right place ! " 

So pinched, so tormented were we for money that 
I signed instantly to secure that immediate poor little five 
dollars a week rise ! Signed and went out to find, await- 
ing me in the letter-box, a better offer from Mr. Lester 
Wallack. 

And let me say right here that about the middle of the 
season I found that some young actresses, who handed 
me cards on the stage, and in laced caps and aprons ap- 
peared as maids in my service, were receiving for their 
arduous duties a higher salary than I received as lead- 
ing woman and their play-mistress. " It's a strange 
world, my masters, a very strange world ! " 



CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTH 

I Go to the Sea-shore — The Search for a "Scar" — I 
Make a Study of Insanity, and Meet with Success in 
"L' Article 47." 

I HAD got safely through my first dreaded vaca- 
tion. I had had two wonderful weeks at the seaside, 
where, with Mr. and Mrs. James Lewis and George 
Parkes, I had boarded with Mrs. By Baker, whom we left 
firmly convinced of our general insanity — harmless, but 
quite hopeless cases she thought us. Awed into reverent 
silence I had taken my first long look at the ocean ; that 
mighty monster, object of my day-dreams all the years, 
lay that day outstretched, smiling, dimpling, blinking 
like the babe of giants, basking in the sun. 

I had inhaled with delight the briny coolness of its 
breath, and with my friends had engaged in wild romps 
in its waves, all of us arrayed meanwhile in bathing 
dresses of hideous aspect, made from gray flannel of peni- 
tential color and scratchiness, and most malignant mod- 
esty of cut; which were yet the eminently proper thing 
at that time. 

I almost wonder, looking at the bathing dresses of to- 
day, that old Ocean, who is a lover of beauty, did not dash 
the breath out of us, and then fling us high and dry on 
the beach, where the sands might quickly drift over our 
ugly shells and hide them from view. 

All this happened, and much more, before I came to the 
play " L' Article 47," famous for its great French court 
scene, and for the madness of its heroine. I am so ut- 
terly lacking in self-confidence that it was little short of 
cruelty for Mr. Daly to tell me, as he did, that the fate of 
the play hung upon that single scene ; that the production 

333 



334 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

would be expensive and troublesome, and its success or 
failure lay absolutely in my hands. 

I turned white as chalk, with sheer fright, and could 
scarcely force myself to speak audibly, when asked if I 
could do the part. 

I answered, slowly, that I thought it unfair for Mr. 
Daly first to reduce me to a state of imbecility, through 
fear, and then ask me to make a close study of violent 
madness — since the two conditions were generally re- 
versed. 

The people laughed, but there was no responsive smile 
on my lips, as I entered upon a period of mental misery 
that only ended with the triumphant first night. 

I did all I could do to get at Cora's character and 
standing before the dread catastrophe — feeling that her 
madness must to some extent be tinged by past habits and 
personal peculiarities. I got a copy of the French novel 
— that was not an affectation, but a necessity, as it had 
not then been translated, and I was greatly impressed 
with the minute description of the destruction done by 
the bullet George had fired into her face. Portions of 
the jaw-bone had been shot away; the eye, much injured, 
had barely been saved, but it was drawn and distorted. 

As the woman's beauty had been her letter of introduc- 
tion to the gilded world, indeed had been her sole capital, 
that " scar " became of tremendous value in the make-up 
of the part, since it would explain, and in some scant 
measure excuse, her revengeful actions. 

Still, as the play was done in Paris, the " scar " was 
almost ignored by that brilliant actress, Madame Rous- 
seil. I had her photograph in the part of Cora, and while 
she had a drapery passed low beneath her jaws to indi- 
cate some injury to her neck or breast, her face was ab- 
solutely unblemished. 

To my mind that weakened Cora's case greatly — she 
had so much less to resent, to brood over. 

I took my trouble to Mr. Daly, after I had been out to 
the mad-house at Blackwell's Island, and had gained some 



WANTED, A SCAR 335 

useful information from that awful aggregation of hu- 
man woe. He listened to Belot's description of Cora's 
beauty and its wrecking " scar " ; he looked condemningly 
at the Rousseil picture, and then asked me what I wanted 
to do. 

I told him I wanted a dreadful scar — then I wanted 
to veil it always ; and he broke in with, " Then why have 
the scar, if it is to be veiled ? " 

But I hurried on : " My constant care to keep it 
covered will make people imagine it a hundred times 
worse than it really is. Then when the veil is torn off 
by main force, and they catch a glimpse of the horror, 
they will not wonder that her already-tottering brain 
should give way under such a blow to her vanity." 

Mr. Daly studied over the matter silently for a few 
moments, then he said : " Yes, you are right. That scar 
is a great factor in the play ; go ahead, and make as much 
of it as you can." 

But right there I came up against an obstacle. I was 
not good at even an eccentric make-up. I did not know 
how to proceed to represent such a scar, as I had in my 
mind. 

" Try," said Mr. Daly. I tried, and with tear-reddened 
eyes announced my failure, but I said : " I shall ask Mr. 
Lemoyne to help me — he is the cleverest and most artis- 
tic maker-up of faces I ever saw." 

" Yes," said Mr. Daly, " get him to try it after rehears- 
al ; you have no time to lose now ! " 

Only too well I knew that; so at once I approached 
Mr. Lemoyne, and made my wants known. I had not 
the slightest hesitation in doing so, because, in spite of 
his sinful delight in playing jokes on me, he was the kind- 
est, most warm-hearted of comrades; and true to that 
character he at once placed his services at my disposal, 
though he shook his head very doubtfully over the un- 
dertaking. 

" You know I never saw a scar of such a nature in my 
life," he said, as he lighted up his dressing-room. 



336 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" Oh," I said, " you, who can change your nose or your 
mouth or your eyes at will, can make an ugly scar, easily 
enough," and off went hat and veil, and Mr. Lemoyne, 
using my countenance for his canvas, began work. 

He grew more and more glum as he wiped off and re- 
painted. One scar was too small — oh, much too small. 
Then the shattered jaw-bone was described. Again he 
tried. " Clara," he said, " I can't do it, because I don't 
know what I am aiming at ! " 

" Oh, go on ! " I pleaded, " make a hideous scar, then 
I'll learn how from you, and do it myself." 

He was patience and kindness personified, but when 
at last he said he could do no more, I looked in the glass, 
and — well, we both laughed aloud, in spite of our chagrin. 
He said : " It looks as though some street-boy had given 
you a swat in the eye with a chunk of mud." 

I mournfully washed it off and begged him to try just 
once more — to-morrow; and he promised with a dole- 
ful air. 

I had tears in my eyes as I left the theatre, I was so 
horribly cast down, for if Mr. Lemoyne could not make 
up that scar no one could. But he used too much black 
— that was a grave mistake, and — oh, dear ! now what ? 
Men were peeling up the stone walk. I could not go 
home by the Sixth Avenue car as usual, without a lot of 
bother and muddy shoes. I was just tired enough from 
rehearsal and disappointed enough to be irritated by the 
tiniest contretemps, and I almost whimpered, as I turned 
the other way and took a Broadway car. I dropped into 
a corner. Three men were on my side of the car. I 
glanced casually at them, and, " Goodness mercy ! " said 
1 to myself, " what are they gazing at — they look fairly 
frightened?" 

I followed the direction of their eyes, and, I gasped! 
I felt goose-flesh creeping up my arms ! On the opposite 
side sat a large and handsome mulatto woman, a small 
basket of white linen was on her knees, her face was 
turned toward the driver, and oh, good God ! not so long 
ago, her throat had been cut almost from ear to ear ! 



A REALISTIC MAKE-UP 337 

The scar was hideous — sickening, it made one feel 
faint and frightened, but I held my quivering nerves with 
an iron hand — here was my scar for Cora ! I must study 
it while I could. It had not been well cared for, I im- 
agine, for the edges of the awful gash were puckered, as 
though a gathering thread held them. There was a queer, 
cord-like welt that looked white, while the flesh either 
side was red and threatening ; and then, as if she felt my 
eyes, the woman turned and faced me. A dull color rose 
slowly over her mutilated throat and handsome face, and 
she felt hastily for a kerchief, which was pinned at the 
back of her dress-collar, and drew the ends forward and 
tied them. 

I kept my eyes averted after that, but when I left the 
car weariness was forgotten. I stopped at a druggist's 
shop, bought sticking-plaster, gold-beaters' skin, and ab- 
sorbent cotton, and with springy steps reached home, ma- 
terials in hand, model in memory — I was content, I had 
found my scar at last ! 

If you are about to accuse me of hardness of heart in 
using, to my own advantage, this poor woman's misfort- 
une, don't, or at least wait a moment first. 

When I had gone through the asylum's wards and the 
doctor had called my attention to this or that exceptional 
case and had tried to make clear cause and effect; when 
I had noted ophidian's stealth in one and tigerish ferocity 
in another, I suddenly realized that to single one of these 
unfortunates out, then to go before an indifferent crowd 
of people and present to them a close copy of the helpless 
afflicted one, would be an act of atrocious cruelty. I 
could not do it ! I would instead seize upon some of the 
general symptoms, common to all mad people, and build 
up a mad-scene with their aid, thus avoiding a cruel imi- 
tation of one of God's afflicted. 

So in this scar I was not going exactly to copy that 
riven throat, but, with slender rolls of cotton, covered and 
held by gold-beaters' skin, I was going to create dull 
white welts with angry red spaces painted between — 



338 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

with strong sticking-plaster attached to my eyelid, I was 
going to draw it from its natural position. Oh, I should 
have a rare scar ! yet that poor woman might herself see 
it without suspecting she had given me the idea. 

Oh, what a time of misery it was, the preparation of 
that play ! Poor Mr. Daly — and poor, poor Miss Mor- 
ris! 

You see everything hung upon the mad-scene. Yet, 
when we came to that, I simply stood still and spoke the 
broken, disjointed words. 

" But what are you going to do at night ? " Mr. Daly 
cried. " Act your scene, Miss Morris." 

Act it, in cold blood, there, in the gray, lifeless day- 
light? with a circle of grinning, sardonic faces, ready to 
be vastly amused over my efforts ? He might better have 
asked me to deliver a polished address in beautiful, pel- 
lucid Greek, to compose at command a charming little 
rondeau in sparkling French, or a prayer in sonorous 
Latin — they would have been easier for me to do, than 
to gibber, to laugh, to screech, to whisper, whimper, rave, 
to crouch, crawl, stride, fall to order in street-clothes, and 
always with those fiendish " guyers " ready to assist in 
my undoing. Yet, poor Mr. Daly, too ! I was sorry for 
him, he had so much at stake. It was asking a good deal 
of him to trust his fate entirely, blindly to me. 

" Oh ! " I said, " I would if I could — do please be- 
lieve me ! I want to do as you wish me to, but, dear Mr. 
Daly, I can't, my blood is cold in daylight, I am ashamed, 
constrained ! I cannot act then ! " 

" Well, give me some faint idea of what you are going 
to do," he cried, impatiently. 

" Dear goodness ! " I groaned, " I am going to try to 
do all sorts of things — loud and quiet, fast and slow, 
close-eyed cunning, wide-eyed terror! There, that's all 
I can tell about it ! " and I burst into harassed tears. 

He said never another word, but I used to feel dread- 
fully when, at rehearsals, he would rise and leave the 
stage as soon as we reached the mad-scene. 



AN ACCIDENT 339 

Then it happened we could not produce the play on 
Monday. An old comedy was put on for that one night. 
I was not in it, and Mr. Daly, seeing how near I was to 
the breaking-point with hard work and terror, tried to 
give me a bit of pleasure. He got tickets for my mother 
and me, and sent us to the opera to hear Parepa and 
Wachtel. I was radiant with delight ; but, alas, when 
did I ever have such high spirits without a swift dampen- 
ing down. Elaborately dressed as to hair, all the rest 
of my little best was singularly plain for the opera. Still 
I was happy enough and greatly excited over our prom- 
ised treat. 

Mother and I set out to go to Miss Linda Dietz's home, 
where we were to pick her up, and, under escort of her 
brother, go over to the Academy of Music. We could not 
afford a carriage, so we had to take one of the 'busses 
then in existence. Mr. Daly had sent me, with my box 
tickets, a pair of white gloves, and with extreme careful- 
ness I placed them in my pocket, drawing on an old pair 
to wear down to Fifteenth Street, where I would don the 
new ones at Miss Dietz's house. How I blessed my fore- 
thought later on! 

Long skirts were worn, so were bustles. A man in 
the omnibus was in liquor; he sat opposite me, right by 
the door. I signaled to stop. Mother passed out be- 
fore me — I descended. The man's feet were on my 
dress-skirt. I tried to pull it free — he stupidly pulled 
in the door. The 'bus started — I was flung to the pave- 
ment ! 

I threw my head back violently to save my face from 
the cobbles, my hands and one knee were beating the cruel 
stones. Mother screamed to the driver, a gentleman 
sprang to the horses, stopped them, picked me up, and 
even then had to thrust the drunken man's feet from my 
torn flounce. I had faintly whispered : " My glass — my 
fan ! " and the gentleman, placing me in mother's arms, 
went out into the street and found them for me. I sat 
on a bench in the Park: I was shaken and bruised and 



340 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

torn and muddy, but I would not go home — not I, I was 
going to hear Parepa and Wachtel ! 

The gentleman simply would not leave us; he gave 
me his arm to Miss Dietz's house, and I needed its aid, 
for each moment proved I was worse hurt than I had at 
first thought. There, however, when with my heartiest 
thanks we parted from our good Samaritan, the Dietz 
family, with dismayed faces, received us. They were 
kindness personified. I was sponged and arnicaed and 
plastered and sewed and brushed, and at last my ankle's 
hurt being acknowledged, it was tightly bound. The new 
white gloves safely came forth, and " Dietzie and Morrie " 
(our nicknames for each other) set forth, with brother 
Frank and mother in attendance, and arrived at the 
crowded Academy just as the curtain rose. We went 
quite wild with delight over the old moss-draped " II 
Trovatore." I broke my only handsome fan — applaud- 
ing. Suddenly " Dietzie " saw me whiten — saw me close 
my eyes. She thought it was the pain of my ankle, but 
it was a sudden memory of Cora and the mad-scene. As 
the whirlwind of applause roared about me, I sickened 
with a mortal terror of the ordeal awaiting me. I hope 
I may always thrust Satan behind me with the whole- 
hearted force I used in thrusting " LArticle 47 " behind 
me on that occasion. I returned to " II Trovatore." I 
enjoyed each liquid jewel of a note, helped to raise the 
roof, afterward declined supper, hastened home, romped 
my dog, and put her to bed. Got into a dressing-gown, 
locked myself in my room, and had it out with Cora, from 
A to Z. Tried this walk and that crouch ; read this way 
and that way. Found the exact moment when her mind 
began to cloud, to waver, to recover, to break finally and 
irretrievably. Determined positively just where I should 
be at certain times ; allowed a margin for the impulse or 
inspiration of the moment, and at last, with the character 
crystal-clear before me, I ended my work and my vigil. 

After turning out the gas I went to the window and 
looked at the sky. The stars had gone in ; low down in 



WHAT THE -HOUSE'' THINKS 341 

the cast a faint, faint band of pink held earth and sky 
together. I was calm and quite ready to rest. All my 
uncertainty was at an end. What the public would do 
I could not know ; what I would do was clear and plain 
before me at last. 

Poor Mr. Daly! I sighed, for I knew his anxiety and 
uneasiness were not allayed. Bertie, tired of waiting for 
me, had curled her loving little body up in my pillow — a 
distinct breach of family discipline. A few moments later, 
feeling her small tail beating a blissful tattoo on my feet, 
I muttered, laughingly : " A little prayer, a little dog, 
and a little rest," and so sank into the sound sleep I so 
desperately needed, in preparation for the ever-to-be- 
dreaded first night of " L'Article 47 " of the French 
Penal Code. 

The house was packed. Well-known people were seen 
all through the theatre. Act I. represented the French 
Court with a trial in full swing — it played for one hour, 
lacking three minutes. I was on the stage ten minutes 
only. I was told Mr. Daly shook his head violently at 
the curtain's fall. 

The next act I was not in at all, but it dragged, and 
when that was over Mr. Daly's peculiar test of public 
feeling showed the presence of disappointment. Like 
many other managers, he often placed men here and there 
to listen to the comments made by his patrons, but his 
quickest, surest way of judging the effect a new play was 
making, was by watching and listening at the very mo- 
ment of the curtain's fall. If the people instantly turned 
to one another in eager speech, and a bee-like hum of 
conversation arose, he nodded his head with pleased sat- 
isfaction — he knew they were saying, " How lovely ! " 
" That was a fine effect ! " " We've had nothing better for 
a long time ! " " It's just divine ! " " It's great ! " etc. 

When they spoke slowly and briefly, he shook his head ; 
but when they sat still and gazed steadily straight ahead 
of them, he called a new play for rehearsal next morning. 

That second act had made him shake his head; the 



342 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

third came on with Cora's rejected love, her strangling 
tears of self-pity, her whirlwind of passion, ending with 
that frantic and incredible threat. The people caught at 
it! I suppose the swiftness of its action, the heat and 
fury following so close upon the two slow, dull acts, 
pleased and aroused them. The curtain went up and 
down, up and down, call after call, and when at last it 
was allowed to remain down, myriads of bees might have 
been swarming in front, and Mr. Daly, nodding and smil- 
ing as I rushed past on my way to change my gown, said : 
" Hear 'em — hear the bees buzz — that's good ! Now 
if only you " 

I waited not for the rest — too well I knew how to 
complete the sentence : " If only I could safely hive those 
swarming bees " for him. Could I ? Oh, could I ? for 
the moment was at hand, the " mad-scene," so dreaded, 
so feared ! 

Three things I had counted upon to help my effects: 
the crouch, the laugh, the scar. The crouch had just done 
splendid service at the end of Act III. Would the other 
two be as effective? 

I went up to the stage ; I was to be discovered lying 
on a lounge. Miss Davenport, magnificently handsome 
in person and gown, beside me; the others at the gam- 
bling-table. As she took my hand she gave a sharp little 
cry : " Heavens ! " she said, " you might be dead, you 
are like ice ! " She touched my forehead, asking, " Are 
you ill ? Why, your head is burning, hot ! hot ! hot ! Mr. 
Daly, just touch her hands and head! " 

He looked down on me in silence ; two pairs of fright- 
ened eyes met; he gave a groan; threw out his hands 
helplessly ; stepped off the stage, and signaled the curtain 
up on what was to make or break the play — and he knew 
no more what to expect than did one of the ushers out 
in front. 

Under cover of the music and the applause accompany- 
ing the curtain's rise, I caught myself muttering, vaguely : 
" The power and the glory — the power and the glory," 



A DRAMATIC TRIUMPH 343 

and knew that involuntarily I was reaching out for the 
old staff on which I had leaned so many times before. 

The scene was on — the laughing cynicism of the 
Baroness — the chatter of the players — then, at last, 
George and Cora were alone ! 

My terror had slipped from me like a garment, I was 
in the play once more; save for just one awful moment! 
George had torn the veil from my disfigured face, and, 
casting in my teeth the accusation : " You are mad ! " had 
left me there alone, standing, stunned by the word ! That 
was the moment of actual dethronement of reason, and, 
as I slowly, stupidly turned my eyes, I saw Mr. Daly's 
white face thrust forward eagerly. His gray eyes wide 
and glowing, his thin hand tightly grasping the lapel of 
his coat, his whole being expressing the very anguish of 
anxiety ! 

One moment I felt I was lost ! I had been dragged out 
of the play at the crucial moment! I clasped my hands 
across my eyes : " The kingdom and the power ! " I 
groaned — I faced the other way ! The low, eerie music 
caught my attention and awakened my imagination, in 
another second I was as mad as a March hare. The first 
time the low, gibbering laugh swelled into the wild, long- 
sustained shrieking ha! ha! a voice said, low and clear: 
" Oh, dear God ! " 

Yet I who had heard the genuine laugh at the mad- 
house knew this to be but a poor, tame, soulless thing, 
compared to that Hecate-like distillation — the very es- 
sence of madness, that ran through that real gibber of 
laughter. 

Yet it was enough. At the end there came to me one 
of those moments God grants now and then as a reward 
for long thirst, way-weariness, and heart-sickness pa- 
tiently borne ! One of those foolishly divine moments you 
stand with the gods and, like them, are young and fair 
and powerful ! Your very nerves thrill harmonious, like 
harp-strings attune — your blood courses like quicksilver 
for swiftness, like wine for warmth, and on that fair peak 



344 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

of Triumph, where one tarries but by moments, there is 
no knowledge of sin or suffering, of death or hate ; there 
is only sunshine, the sunshine of success! love for all 
those creatures who turn smiling faces on you, who hold 
their hands to you with joyous cries ! 

There is no question of deserts, of qualifications ! No 
analysis, no criticism then — they follow later! That is 
just a moment of delicious madness; and to distinguish 
it from other frenzies it is called — a Dramatic Triumph ! 



CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH 

I Am too Dull to Understand a Premonition — By Mr. 
Daly's Side I See the Destruction of the Fifth Avenue 
Theatre by Fire. 

HOW shall I call that strange influence that dumbly 
tries to warn, to prepare? 
Many of us have had experience of this name- 
less something whose efforts are but rarely heeded. The 
something that one morning suddenly fills the mind with 
thoughts of some friend of the far past, who is almost 
entirely forgotten — persistent thoughts not to be shaken 
off. 

You speak of the matter, and your family exclaim: 
" What on earth ever brought him to your mind ? " and 
that night you either hear of the old friend's death or he 
sends you a letter from the other side of the world. 

I had an acquaintance who one day found herself com- 
pelled, as it were, to talk of thefts, of remarkable rob- 
beries. She seemed unable to turn her mind to any other 
subject. If she looked at a lock, she thought how easy it 
would be to force it; at a window, how readily a man 
might enter it. Her people laughed and told her she 
was hoodooed; but next day she was robbed of every 
jewel she had in the world. What was it that was try- 
ing dumbly to warn her ? 

It was on the ist of January that my mind became sub- 
ject to one of those outside seizures. The snow was 
banked high in the streets — had been so for days. The 
unexpected sale of the house in Twenty-first Street had 
forced me to new quarters; I was at that moment in 
Twenty-fourth Street. As I raised my head from kissing 
my mother a Happy New Year, I remarked : " The 

345 



346 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

streets are in a terrible condition for a great fire — are 
they not?" 

" Let us hope there won't be a great fire," replied 
mother, and began to pour out the coffee. 

A little later the French lady coming in, to pass the 
compliments of the day, I was immediately moved to 
ask her if our fire service here was not superior to that 
of Paris ? And I was greatly pleased at her joyous acqui- 
escence, until I discovered that her remarks had reference 
to our larger fireplaces — there are always certain draw- 
backs accompanying a foreign landlady. 

Then I went to the matinee — for, lo, the poor actress 
always does double work on days of festivity for the rest 
of the world, and all occasions of legalized feasting find 
her eating " a cold bite." We were doing a play called 
"False Shame," known in England as " The White 
Feather," a very light three-act play. The dresses and 
scenery were beautiful ; Mr. Daly provided me with one 
gown — a combination of sapphire-blue velvet and 
Pompadour brocade that came within an ace of making 
me look handsome, like the rest. 

He remarked upon its effect, and I told him I felt 
compelled to look well, since I had nothing else to do; 
but the day had gone by when such remarks could anger 
him. He laughed good-humoredly and said : " All the 
same, Miss, that scene at the organ is mighty pretty and 
taking, too." 

For, look you, in the theatre " a little knowledge is not 
a dangerous thing." Complete knowledge is, of course, 
preferable; but, ah, how far a very little will go, and 
here was my poor tum-tumming, " one and two and three 
and" filling Mr. Daly's very soul with joy, because for- 
sooth, in a lovely old English interior, all draped in 
Christmas greens, filled with carved-wood furniture, big 
logs burning in an enormous fireplace, wax candles in 
brass sconces, two girls are at the organ in dinner dress, 
who, nervously anxious about a New Year carol, with 
which they are going to surprise their guests at mid-night, 
seize the moment before dinner to try said carol over. 



A HOTEL FIRE 347 

Miss Davenport, regal in satin, stood, music in hand, 
the fire-light on her handsome face. I, seated at the organ 
in my precious blue and brocade, played the accompani- 
ment, and sang alto, and, though terror over this simple 
bit of work brought me to the verge of nervous prostra- 
tion, the scene was, from the front, like a stolen peep into 
some beautiful private home, and it brought an astonish- 
ing amount of applause. But if I had not " one two 
threed " in Cincinnati on that grinning old piano, where 
would the organ-scene have been? Ah, a little knowl- 
edge, if spread ever so thin by a master hand like Mr. 
Daly's, will prove useful. 

So don't refuse to learn a little because you fear you 
cannot afford to study thoroughly — if you are an actress. 

While I was sitting through a long wait that day I 
fell into a brown study. The theatre dresser, who was 
very fond of me and gave me every spare moment of her 
time, came into my room and twice addressed me before 
I came out of my reverie. 

" What in the world are you thinking of, Miss Clara ? " 
she asked, and I answered with another question: 
" Mary, were you ever in a great fire ? " 

" No," she said ; " were you ? " 

" Yes/' I answered ; " I have been twice burned out 
from shelter at dead of night," and I told her of that hotel 
fire at 3 a.m., where there was but one stairway to the 
street ; of the mad brutality of the men ; of the terrible 
and the ludicrous scenes ; of my own escape, quite alone, 
in bare feet and one white garment ; of my standing 
across a leaking hose, while a strange man pulled my 
right arm, frantically crying, " You come with me ! my 
mother's got a blanket to wrap you up in ! " and Mr. 
Ellsler, who had just arrived, seized my left arm, drag- 
ging me his way and shouting, " Come over to the house 
and get to bed quick, before you die of exposure ! " while 
I felt the water spraying my forlornly shivering shins, 
and was more nearly torn asunder than was ever the 
Solomon baby. 



348 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" Oh, my ! " said Mary, " how dreadful ! " 

" Yes," I said, musingly, " and what a fire this place 
would make — all these partitions of painted pine ! " 

" Oh, don't ! " protested Mary. 

" But," said I, " you know that's what theatres are 
built for — to burn is their natural end ! " and then I was 
called, and went up-stairs to saunter through another act 
of the mild little play. 

I owned but little jewelry then, but what I had was 
noticeably good. My rings, including the handsome pearl 
one Mr. Daly had given me as a souvenir of " 47," I had 
to remove from my fingers for the last act, and when the 
curtain had fallen and I had rushed myself into street 
garments, and was leaving the dressing-room in haste to 
join my waiting mother at dinner, Mary called to me: 
" Miss Clara, you are leaving your diamond rings — but 
never mind," she picked them up and dropped them, one 
by one, into a little box : " I'll lock the door myself, you 
run along, the rings will be safe enough — run ! " and 
the answering words I heard swiftly leaving my lips were 
absolutely involuntary and dictated by no thought of 
mine. They were: 

" Yes, as far as theft is concerned, they are safe enough, 
but in case of fire ? Better give them to me, Mary. Oh ! " 
for the girl had dropped one on the floor. It was a bit 
of Oriental enamel set about with tiny sparks of dia- 
monds. I put the others on, but would not wait for her 
to pick up the rolling truant, and away I went. 

At the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-fourth 
Street I came to a stand-still before two great snow- 
banks, and I thought again what they might mean in case 
of a fire. 

I reached home at a brisk pace, ran up-stairs, threw off 
my cloak, and had drawn my dress-waist half off, when, 
without a preliminary knock, the door was flung open 
and my landlord, Mr. Bardin, white with the excitement 
that had wiped out his knowledge of English, stood ges- 
ticulating wildly and hurling French at me in seething 



FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE FIRE 349 

masses. I caught " le feu!" " le feu!" many times re- 
peated; then " le theatre!" and with a cry I seized his 
arm and shook him. . 

" What is it? " I cried, " do you mean fire? " 

He nodded, and again came the words : " le theatre! " 

" Good heaven and earth ! you don't mean my theatre, 
do you ? " and then two great horses, hurling a fire-en- 
gine around the corner into our street made swift and 
terrifying answer. With a piercing cry I caught up my 
cloak, and throwing off somebody's restraining hands I 
dashed down-stairs and into the street, racing like mad, 
giving sobbing cries, and utterly unconscious for over 
two blocks' space that my waist was unclosed and my 
naked throat and chest were bare to the wintry wind. 

At the corner of the street at Sixth Avenue I wrung 
my hands in anguish, crying, " Oh, dear God ! I knew 
it ! I knew it ! " for there, stalled in the snow, was the 
engine, so desperately needed a little further on! And 
as I resumed my run I said to myself : " What is it that 
has tried so hard to tell me — to warn me ? Tried all the 
day — and I would not understand — and now it's too 
late!" 

Why I ran I do not know — it was not curiosity. I 
felt, somehow, that if I could get there in time I might 
do something — God knows what ! As I neared the the- 
atre the crowd grew more dense, yet to my gasping: 
" Please, oh, please ! " an answer came in a quick moving 
aside to let pass the woman with the white, tear-wet face. 
I broke through the cordon and was making for the stage- 
door, when a rough hand caught me by the shoulder. 
There was an oath, and I was fairly hurled back toward 
the safety line. 

" Oh, let me alone ! " I cried, " I want to go to my 
room ! It will take me but a moment ! " 

Again the rough hand reached out for me, when a 
strange man threw his arm in front of me protectingly : 
" Take care what you're about ! " he said. " Be a little 
gentle — she has a right close to the line, she's one of the 
company ! Can't you see ? " 



350 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

" Oh," grunted the policeman, " well, I didn't know, 
and I couldn't let her kill herself ! " 

" No," said the stranger, " but you had no call to pitch 
her about as you did ! " And just then a long, thin hand 
caught mine, and Mr. Daly's voice said : " Come here, 
child ! " and he led me across the street and up some steps, 
and there, opposite the burning building, I could realize 
the madness of my act in trying to enter. The front of 
the building stood firm, but beyond it, within, all was 
seething flame. It was like some magnificent spectacular 
production — some Satanic pantomime and ballet, and 
every now and then a whirling flame, crowned with myr- 
iad sparks, sprang madly up into the very sky like some 
devilish premiere danseuse; while the lesser fiends joined 
hands and circled frenziedly below. 

Mr. Daly never spoke a word. He had not released 
my fingers, and so we stood, hand in hand, watching 
silently over the torment of his beloved theatre — the 
destruction of his gathered treasures. I looked up at him. 
His face gleamed white in the firelight ; his eyes were 
wide and strained; his fingers, icy cold, never lessened 
their clinching grasp on mine. Then came the warning 
cry firemen are apt to give when they know- the roof is 
going. I had heard it often, and understood that and their 
retreating movement. Mr. Daly did not, and when, with 
a crackling crash, the whole roof fell into the roaring 
depths, his hand, his body, relaxed suddenly; a sort of 
sobbing groan escaped his pale lips. But when the col- 
umn of glowing sparks flew high into the air he turned 
away with a shiver and gave not one other look at the 
destroyed building. 

Not one word was spoken on the subject. Glancing 
down he noticed I had no rubbers on and that streams of 
water were running in the street : 

" Go home, child ! " he said, speaking quickly and most 
kindly. A crowd of reporters came up to him : " Yes," 
he said, " in one moment, gentlemen," then to me : 
" Hurry home, get something to eat — you could have had 
no dinner ! " 



THE SEASON SUDDENLY ENDS 351 

He gave one heavy sigh, and added : " I'm glad you 
were with me, it would have been worse alone." He 
pushed me gently from him. As I started down the street 
he called : " I'll send you word some time to-night what 
we're to do." 

I left him to the reporters ; I had not spoken one word 
from the moment I had begged to enter my dressing-room. 
I felt strangely sad and forlorn as I dropped, draggled 
and tired, into a chair. I said to mother : " It's gone ! 
the only theatre in New York whose door was not barred 
against me, and — I — I think that at this moment I know 
just how a dog feels who has lost a loved master," and, 
dropping my face upon my hands, I wept long over the 
destruction of my first dramatic home in New York, the 
little Fifth Avenue Theatre. 



CHAPTER FORTIETH 

We Become " Barn-stormers," and Return to Open the 
New Theatre — Our Astonishing Misunderstanding of 
" Alixe," which Proves a Great Triumph. 

MY first thought on awaking the next morning 
was one of dismay, on recalling the destruction 
of the little " P.H.C." — that being the actors 
contraction of Mr. Daly's somewhat grandiloquent " Par- 
lor Home of Comedy." My grief over the burning of the 
pretty toy theatre was very real, and I would have been 
an astonished young woman had anyone prophesied that 
for me, personally, the disaster was to prove a piece of un- 
qualified good luck. 

And, by the way, that expression " good luck " reminds 
me of one of the incidents of the fire. That morning, 
when the firemen went to the ruins to examine into the 
state of the standing front wall, they looked upward, and 
there, all alone, on the burned and blackened space, smil- 
ing down in friendly fashion upon them, was the picture 
of Clara Morris — a bit charred as to frame and smoky 
as to glass, but the photograph (one taken by Kurtz), 
absolutely uninjured, being the one and only thing saved 
from the ruins. The firemen very naturally wanted it 
for their engine-house, and Mr. Daly said that for it 
many were claiming, pleading, demanding, bartering — 
but all in vain. His superstition was aroused. Not for 
anything in the world, he cried, would he part from his 
" luck," as he ever after called the rescued picture. So 
there again appeared the malice of inanimate things, for 
how else could one account for the plunging of that line, 
the entire length of the staircase, of splendidly framed 
pictures of loveliness, into the fiery depths, while the 

352 



BARN-STORMING 353 

plain and unimportant one kept its place in calm secur- 
ity? 

Mr. Daly had a very expensive company on his hands. 
He had amazed other managers by his " corner " on lead- 
ing men. With three already in his company he had not 
hesitated to draw on Boston for Harry Crisp, and on 
Philadelphia for Mr. Louis James; and when he added 
such names as George Clark, Daniel Harkins, George 
DeVere, James Lewis, William Lemoyne, William Dav- 
idge, A. Whiting, Owen Fawcett, George Parkes, F. 
Burnett, H. Bascombe, J. Beekman, Charles Fisher, 
George Gilbert, etc., one can readily understand that the 
salary of the men alone must have made quite an item 
in the week's expenses, and added to the sharp necessity 
of getting us to work as quickly as possible. And in act- 
ual truth the ruins of the little theatre were not yet cold 
when Mr. Daly had, by wire, secured a week for us, di- 
vided between Syracuse and Albany, and we were scramb- 
ling dresses together and buying new toilet articles — 
rouge, powders, and pomades, and transforming ourselves 
into " strolling players " ; though, sooth to say, there was 
precious little " strolling " done after we started, for 
we were all rushing for rooms, for food, for trains, 
through a blizzard that was giving us plenty of delay- 
ing snow-drifts. And while the company was cheerfully 
" barn-storming," Mr. Daly was doing his best to find 
shelter for us in New York, engaging the little one-time 
church on Broadway. He had painters, paper-hangers, 
scrub-women, upholsterers, climbing over one another in 
their frantic efforts to do all he desired to have done in 
about one-half the regulation time allowed for such work ; 
and while they toiled day and night with much noise and 
great demonstration of haste, he sat statue-still in a far 
corner, mentally reviewing every manuscript in his pos- 
session, searching eagerly for the one that most nearly 
answered to the needs of the moment. Namely, a play 
that required a strong cast of characters (he had plenty 
of men and women), little preparation, and scanty scen- 
ery (since he was short of both time and money). And, 



354 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

finding " Alixe," then known as " The Opuntess de 
Somerive," he stopped short. The action of the play cov- 
ered but one day — that was promising. There were but 
three acts — good; but two scenes — better! A con- 
ventional chateau garden-terrace for one act, and a simply 
elegant morning-room or stately drawing-room, accord- 
ing to managerial taste, could stand for the other two 
acts. A strong and dramatic work — requiring the paint- 
ing of but two scenes. The play was found ! The com- 
pany was ordered home to rehearse it. 

Now at that time, to my own great anxiety, I was by 
way of standing on very dangerous ground. The public 
had favored me almost extravagantly from the very first 
performance of Anne Sylvester, but the critics, at least 
the most important two, seemed to praise my efforts 
with a certain unwilling drag of the pen. Nearly all their 
kind words had the sweetness squeezed out of them be- 
tween " buts " and " ifs," and, most wounding of all, my 
actual work was less often criticized than were my per- 
sonal defects. Occasionally an actress's work may be too 
good for her own welfare. You doubt that ? Yet I know 
an actress, still in harness, who in her lovely prime made 
so great a hit, in the part of an adventuress, that she has 
had nothing else to act since. Whenever a play was pro- 
duced with such a character in it, she was sent for. But 
if she was proposed for a loyal wife, a gentle sweetheart, 
a modern heroine, the quick response invariably was: 
" Oh, she can't play anything but the adventuress." 

There is nothing more fatal to the artistic value, to the 
future welfare of a young player, than to be known as 
" a one-part actress " ; yet that was the very danger that 
was threatening me at the time of the burning of the 
home theatre. Following other parts known as strong, 
Jezebel, the half-breed East Indian, a velvet-footed 
treachery and twice would-be murderess, and Cora, the 
quadroon mad- woman, were in a fair way to injure me 
greatly. Already one paper had said : " Miss Morris 
has a strange, intuitive comprehension of these creatures 
of mixed blood." 



RETURNING TO NEW YORK 355 

But worse than that, the most powerful of the two crit- 
ics I dreaded had said one morning: "Miss Morris 
played with care and much feeling. The audience wept 
copiously " (to anyone who has lon£ rea ^ tne great critic, 
that word " copiously " is tantamount to his full signa- 
ture, so persistently does he use it), " but her performance 
was flecked with those tigerish gleams that seem to be a 
part of her method. She will probably find difficulty in 
equaling in any other line her success as Cora." 

No animal had ever a keener sense of approaching dan- 
ger than I had, when my professional welfare was threat- 
ened, and these small straws told me plainly which way 
the wind was beginning to blow, and now, looking back, 
I am convinced that just one more " tigerish part " at 
that time would have meant artistic ruin to me, for, fig- 
uratively speaking, pens were already dipped to write 
me down " a one-part actress." 

Then, one bitter cold day we returned to New York 
and Mr. Daly, sending for me, said he must ask a favor of 
me. A form of speech that literally made me " sit up 
straight " — yes, and gasp, too, with astonishment. With 
a regretful sigh he went on : "I suppose you know you 
are a strong attraction ? " 

I smiled broadly at his evident disapproval of such 
knowledge on my part, and he continued : " But in this 
play there is no part for you — yet I greatly need all my 
strongest people in this first cast. Of course as far as 
ability is concerned you could play the Countess and make 
a hit, but she's too old — so you'll not play the mother to 
marriageable daughters under my management, even in 
an emergency. Now I have Miss Morant, Miss Daven- 
port and Miss Dietz, but — but I must have your name, 
too." 

I nodded vigorously — I understood. And having 
seen the play in Paris, where it was one of the three pieces 
offered for an evening's programme, I mentally reviewed 
the cast and presently made answer, cheerfully and 
honestly: " Oh, yes! I see — it's that — 'er — Aline? 



356 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Justine ? No, no ! Claudine? that's the name of the maid. 
You want me to go on for that ? All right ! anything to 
help ! " 

He leaned forward, asking, eagerly : " Do you mean 
that?" 

" Of course I do ! " I answered. 

" Ah ! " he cried, " you don't guess well, Miss Morris, 
but you've the heart of a good comrade, and now I'm 
sure you will do as I ask you, and play Alixe for me? " 

I sprang to my feet with a bound. "Alixe?" I cried. 
" I to play that child ? oh, impossible ! No — no ! I should 
be absurd ! I — I — I know too much — oh, you under- 
stand what I mean! She is a little convent-bred bit of 
innocence — a veritable baby of sixteen years ! Dear Mr. 
Daly don't you see, I should ruin the play ? " 

He answered, rather coldly : " You are not given to 
ruining plays. The part does not amount to much. Good 
heavens! I admit it does not suit you, but think of my 
position ; give me the benefit of your name as Alixe for 
one single week, and on the second Monday night Miss 
Jewett shall take the part off your hands." 

" But," I whimpered, " the critics will make me the 
butt of their ridicule, for I can't make myself look like 
an Alixe. ." 

" Oh, no they won't ! " he answered, sharply. " Of 
course you won't expect a success, but you need fear no 
gibes for trying to help me out of a dramatic hole. Will 
you help me ? " And of course there was nothing to do 
but swallow hard and hold out my hand for the unwel- 
come part. 

Imagine my surprise when, on my way to rehearsal, 
I saw posters up, announcing the production of the play 
of "Alixe." I met Mr. Daly at the door and said: 
" Why this play was always called ' The Countess of 
Somerive.' " 

" Yes," he replied, " I know — but ' Alixe ' looks well, 
it's odd and pretty — and well, it will lend a little impor- 
tance to the part ! " — which shows how heavy were the 



PLAYING "ALIXE" 357 

scales upon our eyes while we were rehearsing the new 
play. 

Everyone sympathized with me, but said a week would 
soon pass, and I groaned and ordered heelless slippers, 
and flaxen hair parted simply and waved back from the 
temples to fall loosely on the shoulders, to avoid the height 
that heels and the fashionable chignon would give me, 
while a thin, white nun's veiling gown, high-necked and 
long-sleeved, over a low-cut white silk lining, buttoned 
at the back and finished with a pale blue sash and little 
side pocket, completed the costume, I prepared for the 
character. I was beginning to understand, as I studied 
her, and shamefacedly — to love! 

Oh, yes, one often feels dislike or liking for the creature 
one is trying to represent. Just at first I said to myself, 
here is a modern Ophelia, but I was soon convinced 
that the innocence of Alixe was far more perfect than had 
been that of Shakespeare's weakling, who, through the 
training of court life, the warnings of a shrewd brother, 
and the admonitions of a tricky father, had learned many 
things — was ductile in stronger hands and could play a 
part; could lead a lover on to speech, without giving 
slightest hint of the hateful watching eyes she knew were 
upon him. 

Poor " Rose of May," whose sweetness comes to us 
across the ages! As the garden-spider's air-spun silken 
thread is cast from bough to twig across the path, so her 
fragile thread of life looped itself from father to lover, to 
brother, to queen, and all the web was threaded thick with 
maiden's tears, made opalescent by rosy love, green hope, 
and violet despair. But each one she clung to raised a 
hand to brush the fragile thing aside, and so destroyed it 
utterly. Yet that tangled wreck of beauty, sweetness, and 
" a young maid's wits," remains one of the world's dearest 
possessions — the fair Ophelia! 

But this modern maid was yet unspotted by the world. 
She found all earth perfect, as though God had just com- 
pleted it, and loved ardently and without shame, as the 



358 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

innocent do love. For this pure flower of crime was igno- 
rant, to the point of bliss, of evil in the world about her. 
While her adored mother was to her as the blessed Madon- 
na herself. 

More and more convincing, as I carefully studied the 
part, became that perfect innocence. Not cold or re- 
served, but alive with faith, quivering, too, with girlish 
mirth, yet innocent. And as with roots deep in rankest, 
blackest ooze and mud, the lily sends up into the sunlit air 
its stainless, white-petaled blossom, to float in golden- 
hearted beauty upon the surface of the stream, so all sweet 
and open-hearted Alixe floated into view. 

And I was expected to act a part like that ! I worried 
day and night over it. Should I do this, should I do that ? 
No — no ! she was not coy — detestable word. I recalled 
the best Ophelia I had ever seen — a German actress. 
Would she do for a model ? Perhaps — no ! she was mys- 
tic, strange, aloof ! 

Oh, dear ! and then, by merest accident, my mind wan- 
dered away to the past, and I said to myself, it should not 
be so hard. Every woman has been innocent. I was inno- 
cent enough when my first sweetheart paused at my side to 
say to me the foolish old words that never lose sweetness 
and novelty. I recalled with what open pleasure I had 
listened, with what honest satisfaction I accepted his atten- 
tion. With a laugh I exclaimed : " I didn't even have 
sense enough to hide my gratification and pride, or to pre- 
tend the least bit." I stopped suddenly — light seemed to 
come into my mind. Innocence is alike the world over, I 
thought ; it only differs in degree. I sprang to my feet ! 
I cried joyously : " I have caught the cue, I do believe — 
/ won't act at all! I'll just speak the lines sincerely and 
simply and leave the effect to Providence. 

The scales loosened a trifle over Mr. Daly's eyes at the 
last rehearsal but one. He was down in the orchestra 
speaking to the leader when I came to the end of the act, 
and the words : " The mother whom I have insulted ? 
That young girl, then, is my sister — the sister whose hap- 



STAGE DIRECTIONS 359 

piness I have stolen? whose future I have shattered? 
What — is — there — left — for — me to live for ? " 

Mr. Daly glanced up, and said, sharply : " What's that ? 
'er, Miss Morris, what are you going to do there as the 
curtain falls ? I — I haven't noticed that speech before. 
Go back a bit, Mr. Fisher, Miss Morant, back to the 
Count's entrance; let me hear that again." 

We went over the scene again : " H-e-m-m ! " said Mr. 
Daly ; " you've not answered my question, Miss Morris. 
What do you do at the fall of the curtain ? " 

" Nothing, sir," I answered, " just stare dazedly at 
space, I think — swaying a little perhaps." 

" I want you to fall ! " he declared. 

" Oh ! " I exclaimed, " please, don't you think that 
would be rather melodramatic ? If she could stand while 
receiving that awful shock about her mother's shame she 
would hardly fall afterward, from mere horror of her own 
thoughts ? " 

" I know all that, but let me tell you there's always 
great effect in a falling body. At any rate you can sink 
into a chair — and so get the suggestion of collapse." 

" There is no chair," I answered, cheerfully. 

" Well," he replied, testily, " there can be one, I sup- 
pose. Here, boy, bring a large chair and place it behind 
Miss Morris." 

" Mr. Daly," I argued, " if I fall heavily, as I must, 
for effect, the chair will jump, and that will be funny — 
see." 

I fell — it did start backward, but Mr. Daly was equal 
to the emergency. " Take off the castors and place the 
chair hard against the end of the piano ; now try ! " 

I did ; the chair was firm as a rock. It was settled ; I 
did as I was told, and fell at the end of the act ever after. 
And Mr. Daly came and patted me on the back, and said, 
kindly : " Don't fret ; I honestly believe there's some- 
thing in the little part after all. That speech made me 
feel creepy." 

But the scales on my own eyes were still firm and tight, 



360 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

and all I could see in the play was the strength, power, and 
passion of the scenes between the Count and Countess, 
and the probable hit of Mr. Louis James in his part of the 
Due de Mirandol. The fate of this play rested in other 
hands than mine, thank goodness, and I rejoiced in the 
freedom from responsibility my small part gave me, and 
planned what I would do when Miss Jewett took Alixe. 

The great night came. Another small auditorium 
awaited the coming of our patrons. There was a smell 
of scarce dried paint in front of the curtain and of scrub- 
bing-soap behind it ; but all was bright and fresh, and the 
house was soon packed with a brilliant audience. As the 
play to be produced had but a small cast, and as Mr. Daly 
was anxious that the entire company should share in this 
house-warming, he had invited Mr. John Brougham to 
write a sort of prologue, giving a few apt lines to every 
member of the company, and then to proceed to the play. 
This was done — but, alas! Mr. Brougham's work was 
utterly unworthy of him. There was not one flash of his 
wonderful wit. He confined himself to comments upon 
the fire, after this manner ; I spoke, saying : 

" I can't remember half the things I lost, I fear " 

Mr. Lewis (breaking in). " One article you have not 
lost " 

CM. "What?" 

Lewis. " ' LArticle 47/ my dear." 

Then Miss Jewett came forward to exclaim: 
" My lovely * peau de soie/ 
The sweetest thing in silk I ever saw ! " 

It was only spoken one night. But the audience was 
so heartily kind to us all that many of us had tears of 
sheer gratitude in our eyes. We were in evening dress 
and were formed in a crescent-like line from box to box, 
as the heavy red curtains parted revealing us, and Mr. 
Daly was very proud of his family of manly-looking men 
and gracious women, and the audience greeted the as- 
sembled company heartily. But that was nothing to the 
welcome given as each favorite actor or actress stepped 



DISCARDING A BUSTLE 361 

forward to speak — and I was happy, happy, happy ! 
when I found myself counted in as one of them, with the 
welcome to the beautiful Davenport, Jewett, Dietz, to the 
ever-favored Mrs. Gilbert, no longer, no heartier than 
my own! And as I bowed low and gratefully, for just 
one moment I could not help wishing that I had an im- 
portant part to play, instead of the childish thing awaiting 
me. 

The prologue being over, Mr. Daly, with a frowning, 
disappointed face, told those of the play to make all possi- 
ble haste in changing their dresses, that they might get to 
work and rub out the bad impression already made. 

Every important occasion seems to have its touch of the 
ridiculous, and so had this one. The " bustle " — the big 
wire affair, extending to the bottom of the skirt, had 
reached its hideous apogee of fashion at that time, yet 
what possible relation could there be between that teeter- 
ing monstrosity and grace or sentiment or tragedy? 
Surely, I thought, this girl-pupil, brought straight from 
convent-school to country-home, might reasonably be 
bustleless — and I should look so much smaller — so 
much more graceful ! But — Mr. Daly ? Never — never ! 
would he consent to such a breach of propriety ! Fashion 
his soul loved ! He pored over her plates ! he bowed to 
her mandates ! 

My courage having failed me, when I hurried to my 
room I put on the obnoxious structure ; but one glimpse 
of that camel-like hump on the back of Alixe, and the 
thought of the fall in the chair made me desperate. I tore 
the mass of wire off, and decided to keep out of sight till 
the last moment, and then make a rush for the stage. 

"Ready, Miss Morris?" 

" Ready ! " I answered, as the question was asked from 
door to door. 

In a few moments the call-boy came back again : " Are 
you ready? Everyone is out there but you." 

" Oh, yes ! " I said, showing myself to him, but still 
not leaving the shelter of my room ; and I heard him say- 
ing : " Yes, sir, she's all ready, I saw her," 



362 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

The curtain rose. Only a few lines were spoken be- 
fore my entrance. I dared wait no longer — heavens! 
no ! for there was Mr. Daly coming for me. I gathered 
up my skirts as bunchily as I could and ran out; but I 
could not deceive Mr. Daly. In an instant he missed the 
necessary camel's hump. " Good heaven and earth ! " he 
shouted, " you've left your bustle ! " 

I broke into a run. " Wait ! " he cried, loudly. He 
dashed into my open room, caught the big bustle up, and 
dragging it like a great cage behind him, came plunging 
down the entrance to me, crying : " Wait — wait ! " and 
waving the other hand commandingly above his head. 

I heard my music ; I sprang to the platform I had to 
enter from. " That's me ! " I cried. " Wait ! " he ordered 
and reached out to catch me. I evaded his grasp and 
skipped through the door, leaving but a fold of my skirt 
in his hand. I was on the stage — and joy, oh, joy! I 
was without a bustle ! 

Mr. Daly did not like being laughed at, but when he 
glanced down and saw the thing he was dragging behind 
him, after the manner of a baby's tin wagon, he had to 
laugh, and verily there were others who laughed with 
him, while the scandalized dresser carried the rejected 
article back to a decent seclusion. 

There is no manager, star, or agent alive whose experi- 
ence will enable him to foresee the fate of an untried play. 
A very curious thing is that what is called an " actor's " 
play — one, that is, that actors praise and enjoy in the re- 
hearsing, is almost always a failure, while the mana- 
gerial judgment has been reversed so often by the public, 
that even the most enthusiastic producer of new plays is 
apt " to hedge " a bit, with : " Unless I deceive myself, 
this will prove to be the greatest play," etc.; while the 
mistakes made by actors and managers both anent the 
value of certain parts are illustrated sufficiently by E. H. 
Sothern, C. W. Couldock, Joseph Jefferson — all three of 
whom made immense hits in parts they had absolutely re- 
fused to accept, yielding only from necessity or obliging- 



AN EXPERIMENT 363 

ness, and to their own astonishment finding fame in pre- 
senting the unwelcome characters. And to the misjudged 
Lord Dundreary , Asa Trcnchard, etc., that night was 
added the name of Alive. 

Refined, intensely modern, the play was nevertheless a 
dread tragedy, and being French it almost naturally dealt 
with the breaking of a certain great commandment. And 
now — see : we actors thought that the stress and power 
of the play would be shown in the confession of the wife 
and in the scene of wild recrimination between her and 
the Comte de Somerive, when they met after eighteen 
years of separation. But see, how different was the view 
the public took. In the very first place then, when I es- 
caped the bustle, and entered, straight, and slim, art had 
so reduced my usual height and changed my coloring, that 
until I spoke I was not recognized. The kindly welcome 
then given me calmed my fears, and I said to myself : " I 
can't be looking ridiculous in the part, or they would not 
do that ! " And women, at least, can understand how my 
very soul was comforted by the knowledge. And just 
then a curious sense of joy seemed to bubble up in my 
heart. The sudden relief, the feeling of irresponsibility, 
the first-night excitement. Perhaps one, perhaps all to- 
gether caused it. I don't know — I only know that mean- 
ing no disrespect, no irreverence, I could have sung aloud 
from the Benedicite: "Omnia opera Domini!" "Bless 
ye the Lord : praise him and magnify him forever ! " 

And the audience accepted the joyous little maid al- 
most from the first girlish, love-betraying words she spoke, 
and yet — so sensitive is an audience at times — while 
still laughing over her sweet ignorance, they thrilled with 
a nameless dread of coming evil. They seemed to see 
the blue sky darkening, the threatening clouds piling up 
silently behind the white-robed child, whose perfect inno- 
cence left her so alone! Before the first act ended we 
discovered that the tragedy was shifting from the sinful 
mother and was settling down with crushing weight upon 
the shoulders of the stainless child. Indeed, the whole 



364 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

play was like a dramatization of the awful words : " The 
sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children ! " 

As the play went on and the impetuous grief of the 
child changed into proud self-restraint, while her agoniz- 
ing jealousy of her adored mother developed, Mr. Daly, 
with wide, bright eyes, exclaimed : " I must have been 
blind — stone-blind ! Why Alixe is the bone and mar- 
row, the heart and soul of this play ! " 

Certainly the audience seemed to share his belief, for 
it called and called and called again for that misunderstood 
young person, in addition to the hearty approval bestowed 
upon the other more prominent characters. It was a very 
fine cast, Miss Fanny Morant making a stately and 
powerful Comtesse de Somerive, while Mr. Louis James 
gave a performance of the Due de Mirandol that I never 
saw even approached again. Every other actor made of 
him either a fool or a brute, while James made of him a 
delightful enigma — a sort of well-bred simpleton, rattle- 
brain, and braggart, who at the last moment shows him- 
self, beneath all disguise, a brave and loyal gentleman. 

But the greatest triumph for Alixe followed in that 
act — the last — in which she does not speak at all. She 
had been able to bear loss, sorrow, renunciation, but as 
in olden times poison-tests were kept, crystal cups of 
such rare purity they shattered under contact with an evil 
liquid — so her pure heart broke at contact with her 
mother's shame. Poor, loving, little base-born ! Pathet- 
ic little marplot! Seeing herself as only a stumbling- 
block to others, she sought self-effacement beneath the 
gentle waters of the lily-pond. And early in that last act, 
as her drowned body, carried in the arms of the two men 
who had loved her, was laid before the starting eyes of the 
guilty mother, and the loving, forgiving, pleading letter 
of the suicide was read above her, actual sobs rose from 
the front of the house. It was a heart-breaking scene. 

But when the curtain fell, oh ! what a very whirlwind 
broke loose in that little theatre! The curtain shot up 
and down, up and down, and then, to my amazement, Mr. 



ANSWERING A CALL 365 

Daly signaled for me to go before the curtain, and I 
couldn't move. He stamped his foot and shouted: 
" Come over here and take this call ! " and I called back : 
" I can't ! I am all pinned up, so I can't walk ! " 

For, that my skirts might not fall away from my ankles, 
when I was being carried across the stage, I had stood 
upon a chair and had my garments tightly wound about 
me and securely fastened, and unfortunately the pins were 
behind — and I all trussed up, nice and tight and help- 
less. 

Mr. Daly came tearing over to me, and down he went 

upon his knee to try to free me, but a muttered " D n ! " 

told me that he could not find the pins, and the applause, 
oh, the precious applause that was being wasted out there ! 
Suddenly he rose — tossed that extraordinary hat of his 
off, picked me up in his arms and carried me like a big 
property doll to the curtain's side, signaled it up, and, 
with his arm about me, supported me on to the stage. 
Oh, but I was proud to stand there with him, for in those 
days he would not make the simplest speech; would not 
show himself even. Why, at the banquet of his own giv- 
ing, he hid behind a big floral piece and made Mr. Oakey 
Hall speak for him. And yet he had been pleased enough 
with my work to bring me there himself. I saw his hand 
upon my shoulder, and suddenly I stooped my head and 
kissed it, in purest gratitude. 

Afterward, when I had been unpinned, as we walked 
through the entrance together, he said, with a gleeful 
laugh : " This is the third and greatest, but we share it." 

"The third what?" I asked. 

" The third surprise," he answered. " First you sur- 
prised the town in ' Man and Wife ' ; second, you sur- 
prised me in ' L' Article 47 ' ; now ' Alixe ' — the greatest 
of all — surprises you as well as me ! " 

He stopped, stepped in front of me and asked : " What 
do you most wish for ? " 

I stared at him. He added, " About your home, say? " 

And swiftly I made answer : " A writing-desk ; why ? " 



366 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

He laughed a little and said : " Good-night, now. Oh, 
by the way, there's a forfeit against you for not wearing 
your bustle to-night." 

But I was not greatly alarmed or excited — not half 
so much as I was next day, about four o'clock, when some 
men drove up and insisted upon leaving in my room a 
handsome inlaid desk that was taller than I was. At first 
I protested, but a card, saying that it was " A souvenir of 
' Alixe/ from your manager and friend, A. Daly," 
changed my bearing to one of most unseemly pride. 

In the next ten days I wrote I think to every soul I 
knew, and kept up my diary with vicious exactitude, just 
for the pleasure of sitting before the lovely desk, that to- 
day stands in my " den " in the attic. Its mirror-door, 
is dim and cloudy, its sky-blue velvet writing-leaf faded to 
a silvery gray, but even so it still remains " A souvenir 
of ' Alixe/ from A. Daly." 



CHAPTER FORTY-FIRST 

Trouble about Obnoxious Lines in " Madeline Morel " — 
Mr. Daly's Manipulation of Father X : In Spite of our 
Anxiety the Audience accepts the Situation and the Play 
— Mr. Daly gives me the smallest Dog in New York. 

THE last and fourth success that was granted to 
me under Mr. Daly's management was in " Made- 
line Morel." Of course I played in many plays, 
sometimes small, comparatively unimportant parts, some- 
times, as in the two-hundred-night run of " Divorce," I 
played a long, hard-working part, that was without any 
marked characteristic or salient feature to make a hit with. 
But I only mention " Madeline Morel " because of a 
couple of small incidents connected with its production. 
First of all, let me say that I believe Mr. Daly, who was 
an ardent Catholic, was not the first manager to give bene- 
fits to the Orphan Asylums, for I think that had long 
been a custom, but he was the first to arrange those 
monster programmes, which included the names of every 
great attraction in the city — bar none. The result was 
not merely an Academy of Music literally packed, but 
crowds turned from its doors. I remember what excite- 
ment there was over the gathering together in one per- 
formance of such people as Fechter, Sothern, Adelaide 
Neilson, Aimee, and Mr. and Mrs. Barney Williams. I 
first saw the beautiful Mary Anderson at one of these ben- 
efits, as well as those two clever English women, Rose 
Coghlan and Jeffreys Lewis. Later on, when I was under 
Mr. Palmer's management, I had an experience at a benefit 
that I am not likely to forget. I had consented to do the 
fourth act of " Camille " (the ball-room scene), and when 
I swept through the crowd of " guests," every word was 

3&7 



368 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

wiped clean out of my memory, for as they faced me I 
recognized in the supposed supers and extras all the vari- 
ous stars — the leading ladies and gentlemen who had 
had a place on the lengthy programme. Working hard, 
giving of their best, they had all laughingly joined in this 
gracious whim of playing supernumeraries in Dumas's 
ball-scene. And I remember that Mademoiselle Aimee 
was particularly determined to be recognized as she 
walked and strolled up and down. Once I whispered im- 
ploringly to her : " Turn your back, Madame ! " but she 
laboriously answered : " Non ! I haiv' not of ze shame 
to be supe for you, Mademoiselle ! " It was a charming 
compliment, but more than a bit overwhelming to its re- 
cipient. 

Well, Mr. Daly having originated, as I believe, these 
splendid and lengthy benefit performances, was, as a re- 
sult, able to place a goodly sum of money at the service 
of the Asylum authorities, and naturally he received warm 
thanks from his Church. 

Then, when " Madeline Morel " came along, with the 
great cathedral scene, we all stood aghast at what I was 
called upon to say and do. Everyone was on the stage, 
and nearly everyone whispered : " Sacrilege ! " I stopped 
stock-still, in sheer fright. Mr. Daly pulled nervously 
at the lapel of his coat for a moment, and then said, sharp- 
ly, " Go on ! " I obeyed, but right behind me someone 
said : " And he calls himself a Catholic ! " 

It was a horrid bit, in an otherwise beautiful and im- 
pressive act. As a " sister " who had served the " noviti- 
ate," I had just taken the life vows and had been invested 
with the black veil. Then the wedding procession and 
the Church procession, coming from opposite sides and 
crossing before the altar, like a great " X," brought the 
bridegroom and the black nun face to face, in dreadful 
recognition, and in the following scene I had to drag from 
my head the veil and swathing white linen — had to tear 
from my breast the cross, and, trampling it under foot, 
stretch my arms to Heaven and, with upraised face, cry: 



FATHER X. AS CENSOR 369 

" I call down upon my guilty soul the thunders of a curse, 
that none may hear and live ! " and then fall headlong, 
as though my challenge had been accepted. 

Nothing was talked of day or night but that scene, and 
those of the company who were Catholics were particu- 
larly excited, and they cried : " Why, if we find it so re- 
pellant, what on earth will an audience think of it?" 

Some prophesied hisses, some that the people would 
rise and leave the theatre. That Mr. Daly was uneasy 
about its effect he did not attempt to hide, and one day 

he said to me : " I think I'll call on Father X (his 

confessor and friend) to-morrow evening, and get his — 
well — his opinion on this matter. But, unfortunately, 
rumors had already reached churchly ears, and the rever- 
end gentleman came that same day to inquire of Mr. Daly 
concerning them. I say " unfortunately," because Mr. 
Daly was a masterful man and resented anything like in- 
terference. Had he been permitted to introduce the mat- 
ter himself, no doubt a few judicious words from the 
priest would have induced him to tone down the objection- 
able speech and action: but the visit to him rubbed him 
the wrong way and aroused every particle of obstinacy 
in him. He described the play, however, assured his 
old friend there were no religious arguments, no homilies 
in it, but when he came to the scene, the Father shook his 
head : " No — no ! my son ! " said he, " I do not see how 
that can be sanctioned." 

Mr. Daly reasoned, argued, almost pleaded ; but though 
it evidently hurt the good man to refuse, since he was 
greatly attached to his son in the church, he still shook 
his head and at last declared it was a serious matter, and 
he would have to bring it to the Bishop's attention. But 
that was just what Mr. Daly did not want. " Can you 
not see, Father," he said, " these lines are spoken in a 
frenzy ? They come from the lips of a woman mad with 
grief and trouble! They have not the value or the con- 
sequence of words spoken by a sane person ! " 

The priest shook his head. Suddenly Mr. Daly ceased 



370 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

his arguments and persuasions. After a little silence, he 
said: "You cannot sanction this scene, then, Father?" 

A positive shake of the head. Mr. Daly looked pen- 
sively out of the window. 

" Too bad ! " he sighed, " too bad ! " 

The kind old man sighed too, companionably. 

" You see, if that scene is not done, the play cannot be 
done." 

" Dear, dear ! " murmured the priest. 

" And if the play is not done, having nothing else at 
hand, I shall have to close the season with the old play, 
and naturally that will mean bad business." 

" Too bad, too bad ! " muttered the voice, comfortably. 

" And if the season ends badly, why, of course, there 
can be no charity benefit." 

" What ? " sharply exclaimed the erstwhile calm voice. 
" No benefit for our poor ? Why — why — 'er — I — 
dear me ! and the Asylum needs help so badly ! — 'er — a 
' frenzy ' you said, my son ? Spoken in madness ? — 'er 
— I — well — I will give the matter serious thought, and 
I'll acquaint you with my conclusion," and evidently much 
disturbed he retired. 

And when Mr. Daly told me this, he added, with a twin- 
kle in his eye : " He will get the benefit, surely enough.'' 
And when he saw my bewilderment, he added : " Don't 
you see ? I had my doubts about the Bishop, but dear old 

Father X will be so anxious about his orphans that 

he will make things right for me with him, for their 
sakes." A view of the matter that proved to be correct. 
Verily a clever man was our manager. 

Day after day we rehearsed, and day after day I hoped 
that the dreadful bit of business might be toned down. 
At last my nerves gave way completely, and after a par- 
ticularly trying rehearsal I rushed to the managerial 
office, and, bursting into tears, begged hard to be excused 
from trampling the cross under foot. 

" Surely," I sobbed, " it's bad enough to have to tear 
off the veil — and — and — I'm afraid something will 
happen ! " 



OBEYING ORDERS 371 

" And," said Mr. Daly, M to tell you the truth, I'm 
afraid, too ! " 

He gave me a glass of water, and waiting a moment 
for me to conquer my tears, he went on : M I'm glad you 
have come in, I was just about sending for you." 

M Oh ! " I interrupted, " you are going to cut something 
out ? " But he answered, gravely : No ! I shall cut 
nothing out ! But look here, you are a brave girl, and 
forewarned is forearmed, you know, so I am going to 
speak quite plainly. I don't know how the public may 
receive that bit of business ; perhaps with dead silence ; 
perhaps with hisses." 

I sprang to my feet. " Sit down ! " he said, " and lis- 
ten. You shall not be held responsible, in the slightest 
degree, for the scene, I promise you that. If anything 
disagreeable happens it shall be fairly stated that you 
played under protest. It is, of course, possible that the 
scene may go along all right, but I want to warn you that 
you may prepare yourself for the storm, should it come. 
I don't want you to be taken unawares and have you faint 
or lose your nerve. So, now whenever you go over your 
part and reach that point, say to yourself : ' Here they 
hiss! ' Don't look so pale. I'm sorry you have to bear 
the brunt alone, but you will be brave, won't you ? " 

And I rose, and after my usual habit, tried to jest, as 
I answered : " Since you alone gave me my opportunity 
of being applauded in New York, I suppose it's only fair 
that I should accept this opportunity of being hissed." 

Excited and miserable I went home. Faithfully I fol- 
lowed Mr. Daly's suggestion. But no matter how often 
I went over the scene, whenever I said : " Here they 
hiss," my face went white, my hands turned cold as stone. 
'Twas fortunate the first performance was near, for I 
could not have borne the strain long. As it was, I seemed 
to wear my nerves on the outside of my clothes until the 
dreaded night was over. 

The play had gone finely ; most of the people were well 
cast. Miss Morant, Miss Davenport, Miss Jewett, Miss 



372 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

Varian especially so; while Fisher, Lewis, Lemoyne, 
Crisp, Clark, and James did their best to make a success 
and close in glory the season that had been broken in half 
by the burning of the home theatre. The end of the third 
act had been mine. The passionate speech of renuncia- 
tion and farewell had won the favor of the house, and 
call after call followed. As I had played the scene alone, 
I should have been proud and happy — should have 
counted the calls with a miser's gloating satisfaction. 
But instead my blood was already chilling with dread of 
the coming act. 

" Good Lord, child ! " said Mr. Daly, " your face is as 
long as my arm! Don't anticipate evil — take the good 
the gods send you. You are making a hit and you're 
losing all the pleasure of it. I'm ashamed of you ! " 

But he wrung my fingers hard, even as he spoke, and I 
knew that his words were, what the boys call a " bluff." 

Then the curtain was rising. The cathedral scene won 
a round of applause, and kneeling at the altar, as children 
say, " I scringed " at the sound. Then after a little I was 
coming down the stage and the audience, recognizing 
Madeline in the nun, applauded long and heartily, and 
I fairly groaned aloud. After that the act proceeded 
really with stately dignity, but to my terrified eyes it 
seemed indecent haste; and as I fell into line with the 
Church procession of sisters, of novices, of priests and 
acolytes, I felt myself a morsel in a kaleidoscopic picture 
of bright colors, the churchly purple and its red and 
white, the brilliant gowns of the women of fashion, the 
golden organ-pipes, the candles burning star-like upon 
the altar, the massed flowers, and over all, giving a touch 
of floating unreality to everything, the clouds of incense. 

Then suddenly, out of the bluish haze, there gleamed 
the white, set face, for love of which I was to sacrifice my 
very soul! The scene was on, swift, passionate, and 
furious, and almost before I could realize it, the dreadful 
words had been spoken — and with my foot upon the 
cross, I stood in a silence the like of which I had never 



NEW YORK'S TINIEST DOG 373 

known before ! I had not fallen — stricken absolutely 
motionless with terror I stood — waiting. 

In that crowded building even breathing seemed sus- 
pended. There reigned a silence, like to death itself! 
It was awful ! Then without changing my attitude by 
the movement of a ringer, I pitched forward, falling heav- 
ily at the feet of the dismayed lover and the indignant 
priest. And suddenly, sharply as by a volley of musketry, 
the silence was broken by applause. Yes, actually by ap- 
plause, and beneath its noise I heard a voice behind me 
gasp: "Well, I'll be blest!" 

When all was ended, and after the final courtesies had 
been extended and gratefully accepted, there was an out- 
burst of excited comment, and more than one experienced 
actor declared that never again would they even try to an- 
ticipate the conduct of an audience. Old Mr. Fisher told 
Mr. Daly he had felt the rising hiss and he was positive it 
was regard for the woman that had restrained its expres- 
sion. 

Mr. Daly patted the old gentleman on the shoulder and 
answered : " Perhaps — perhaps ! but if for her sake the 
public has swallowed that scene one night, the public have 
got to go on swallowing it every night — and that's the 
important point for us." 

Very shamefacedly I apologized for not falling at the 
proper time, and as I hurriedly promised to do so the 
next night, to my surprise Mr. Daly stopped me with a 
quick : " No ! no ! change nothing ! I was in front, and 
that pause, staring straight up into heaven, was tremen- 
dously effective. It was as if God offered you a moment 
to repent in — then struck you down! Change nothing, 
and to-morrow you shall have your heart's desire." 

I gazed at him in amazement. He laughed a bit ma- 
liciously and said : " Old heat-registers and things carry 
voices. I hear many things. I have heard, for instance, 
about a man named Dovey and a wonderful toy terrier 
that weighs by ounces. I wouldn't open my eyes any 
wider, if I were you ; they might stay that way. Well, will 



374 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

you show me the way to Dovey's by eleven to-mor- 
row ?" 

" But/' I faltered, " I'm afraid of the price " 

"That's my affair," he answered curtly, then added, 
more kindly, " Good-night ! you have behaved well, Miss 
Morris, and if I can give you a pleasure — I shall be 
glad." 

And next day I owned the tiniest dog in New York, 
who slept in a collar-box, by my pillow, that I might not 
hurt it in the night. Whose bark was like a cambric nee- 
dle, and who, within five minutes after her arrival, chal- 
lenged to deadly combat my beloved Bertie, who weighed 
good four pounds. 



CHAPTER FORTY-SECOND 

I am Engaged to Star part of the Season — Mr. Daly 
Breaks his Contract — I Leave him and under Threat 
of Injunction — I meet Mr. Palmer and make Contract 
and appear at the Union Square in the "Wicked World." 

THE third season in New York was drawing to its 
close, and by most desperate struggling I had man- 
aged just to keep my head above water — that was 
all. I not only failed to get ahead by so much as a single 
dollar, but I had never had really enough of anything. 
We were skimped on clothes, skimped on food, indeed we 
were skimped on everything, except work and hope de- 
ferred. When, lo! a starring tour was proposed to me. 
After my first fright was over I saw a possibility of earn- 
ing in that way something more than my mere board, 
though, truth to tell, I was not enraptured with the pros- 
pect of joining that ever-moving caravan of homeless 
wanderers, who barter home, happiness, and digestive ap- 
paratus for their percentage of the gross, and the doubtful 
privilege of having their own three-sheet posters stare 
them out of countenance in every town they visit. Yet 
without the brazen poster and an occasional lithograph 
hung upside down in the window of a German beer saloon, 
one would lack the proof of stardom. 

No, I had watched stars too long and too closely to be- 
lieve theirs was a very joyous existence; besides, I felt 
I had much to learn yet, and that New York was the place 
to learn it in ; so, true to my promise, off I went and laid 
the matter before Mr. Daly — and he did take on, but for 
such an odd reason. For though he paid me the valued 
compliment of saying he could not afford to lose me, his 

375 



376 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

greatest anger was aroused by what he called the " de- 
moralization " my act would bring into his company. 

" You put that bee in their bonnets and its buzzing will 
drown all commands, threats, or reasons. Every mother's 
son and daughter of them will demand the right to star ! 
Why, confound it! Jimmie Lewis, who has had one try 
at it, is twisting and writhing to get at it again — even 
now ; and as for Miss Davenport, she will simply raise the 
dead over her effort to break out starring, and Ethel — 
oh, well, she's free now to do as she likes. But you star one 
week and you'll see how quick she will take the cue, while 
Miss — oh, it's damnable! You can't do it! it will set 
everyone on end ! " 

" If you will give me a salary equal to that of other 
people, who do much less work than I do, I will stay with 
you," I said. 

But he wanted me to keep to the small salary and let 
him " make it up to me," meaning by that, his paying for 
the stage costumes and occasional gifts, etc. But that was 
not only unbusiness-like and unsatisfactory — though he 
undoubtedly would have been generous enough — but it 
was a bit humiliating, since it made me dependent on his 
whims and, worst of all, it opened the door to possible 
scandal, and I had but one tongue to deny with, while 
scandal had a thousand tongues to accuse with. 

It was a queer whim, but he insisted that he could not 
give me the really modest salary I would remain for, 
though, in his own words, I should have " three times its 
value." Finally we agreed that I should give him three 
months of the season every year as long as he might want 
my services, and the rest of the season I should be free to 
make as much money as I could, starring. He told me to 
go ahead and make engagements at once to produce 
" U Article 47 " or " Alixe " — I to pay him a heavy nightly 
royalty for each play, and when my engagements were 
completed to bring him the list, that he might not produce 
" Alixe " with his company before me in any city that I 
was to visit. I did as he had requested me. I was bound 



LITIGATION THREATENED 377 

in every contract to be the first to present " L'Article 47 " 
or " Alixe " in that city. I was then to open in Philadel- 
phia. I had been announced as a coming attraction, when 
I received startling telegrams and threats from the local 
manager that " Mr. Daly's Fifth Avenue Company " was 
announced to appear the week before me in Alixe," in 
an opposition house. Thus Mr. Daly had most cruelly 
broken faith with me. I went to him at once. I re- 
proached him. I said : " These people will sue me ! " 

" Bah ! " he sneered, " they can't take what you have 
not got ! " 

" But," I cried, " they will throw over my engage- 
ment ! " 

His face lit up with undisguised pleasure. He thrust 
his hand into the open desk-drawer. " Ah," he smiled, 
" I have a part here that might have been written for you. 
It is great — honestly great, and with this starring busi- 
ness disposed of, we can get at it early ! " 

I rose. I said : " Mr. Daly, you have done an un- 
worthy thing, you have broken faith with me. If you 
produce ' Alixe ' next week, I will never play for you 
again ! " 

" You will have to ! " he threatened. " I have broken 
the verbal part of our contract, but you cannot prove it, 
nor can you break the written part of the contract ! " 

I repeated : " I shall play for you no more ! " 

And he hotly answered : " Well, don't you try playing 
for anyone else. I give you fair warning — I'll enjoin 
you if you do ! The law is on my side, remember." 

" My dear sir," I said, " the law was not specially cre- 
ated for you to have fun with, and it has an odd way of 
protecting women at times. I shall at all events appeal 
to it to-morrow morning." 

Next morning my salary was sent to me. I took from 
it what was due me for two nights' work I had done 
early in the week, and returned the rest, saying : " As 
I am not a member of the company, no salary need be 
sent me." And eleven o'clock found me in the office of 
ex- Judge William Fullerton. 



378 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

He declared that my mind showed a strong legal bent, 
and he congratulated me upon my refusal of the proffered 
salary. "If," said he, " you receive a desirable offer in 
the way of an engagement, take it at once and without 
fear. Mr. Daly will threaten you, of course, but I can't 
believe his lawyers will permit him to take this matter 
into court. In attacking you he will attack every young, 
self-supporting woman in New York, in your person. 
The New York man will sympathize with you. Public 
opinion is a great power, and no manager wishes to see it 
arrayed against him." 

And thus it happened that I was not legally quite off 
with the old manager when I was on with the new — in 
the person of Mr. A. M. Palmer, my sometime manager 
and still my honored friend. Our relations were always 
kindly, yet to this hour I squirm mentally when I recall 
our first meeting. I was taking some chocolate at a 
woman's restaurant on Broadway, and a common friend 
brought the " Union Square " manager in and introduced 
him, simply as a friend, for whatever my secret hope, 
there had been no open word spoken about business in 
connection with this interview. But, given a meeting be- 
tween an idle actress and an active manager, a Barkis- 
like willingness to talk business is sure to develop. 

Looking up and seeing Mr. Harriott advancing toward 
my table with a strange gentleman in tow, I gave a ner- 
vous swallow and fixed my attention upon the latter. His 
rigid propriety of expression, the immaculately spotless 
and creaseless condition of his garments made me expect 
each moment to hear the church-bells clang out an invita- 
tion to morning service. Being presented, he greeted me 
with a gentle coldness of manner — if I may use the ex- 
pression — that sent my heart down like lead. Now ex- 
treme nervousness on my part nearly always expresses 
itself in rapid, almost reckless speech, and directly I was 
off at a tangent, successfully sharing with them the fun 
of various absurdities going on about us ; until, in an evil 
moment, my eye fell upon the smug face of a young rural 



A MINISTERS SON 379 

beau, whose terrified delight in believing himself a very 
devil of a fellow was so ludicrously evident, that one wept 
for the presence of a Dickens to embalm him in the amber 
of his wit. 

" Oh ! " I said, egged on by one of those imps who 
hover at the elbow of just such women as I am, " can't 
you see he is a minister's son ? He has had more religion 
given to him than he can digest. He's taking a sniff of 
freedom. He has kicked over the traces and he has not 
quite decided yet whether he'll go to the demnition bow- 
wows entirely, or be moderately respectable. He's a min- 
ister's son fast enough, but he doesn't know yet whether 
he will manage a theatre in New York or run away with 
the Sunday-school funds ; and that red-haired young per- 
son oppo — opposite " And I trailed off stupidly, for 

judging by the ghastly silence that had fallen upon my 
hearers and the stricken look upon Mr. Harriott's face, 
I knew I had set my foot deep in some conversational 
morass. I turned a frightened glance upon Mr. Palmer's 
face, and I have always been glad that I was in time to 
catch the twinkling laughter in his cool, hazel eyes. Then 
he leaned toward me and gently remarked : "I am the 
son of a minister, Miss Morris, and the manager of a the- 
atre, but upon my word the Sunday-school funds never 
suffered at my hands." 

" Oh ! " I groaned. And I must have looked just as a 
pet dog does when it creeps guiltily to its mistress's foot 
and waits to be smacked. I really must, because he sud- 
denly broke into such hearty laughter. Then presently 
he made a business proposition that pleased me greatly, 
but I felt I must tell him that Mr. Daly promised to get 
out an injunction to prevent my appearance anywhere, 
and he would probably not care to risk any trouble. And 
then there came a little squeeze to Mr. Palmer's lips and 
a little glint in his eye, as he remarked : " You accept my 
offer and I'll know how to meet the injunction." 

And I can't help it — being born on St. Patrick's Day 
and all that — if people will step on the tail of one's coat, 



380 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

why of course they must expect " ructions." And to tell 
the honest truth, Mr. Palmer's perfect willingness to 
fight that injunction filled me with unholy glee; which 
combined beautifully with gratitude for his quick forgive- 
ness of my faux pas — and I signed a contract with Mr. 
Sheridan Shook and Mr. A. M. Palmer and was an- 
nounced to appear in " The Wicked World " at the Union 
Square Theatre, and I was pursued day and night by slim 
young men with black curly hair, who tried to push folded 
papers into my unwilling hands; while life behind the 
scenes grew more and more strenuous, as scene-shifters, 
property-men, and head carpenters, armed with braces and 
screw-eyes, charged any unknown male creature that 
looked as if he could define the word injunction. 

The night came, and with it an equinoctial gale of per- 
fect fury. Whether the people were blown in by the 
storm or fought their way in by intention, I can't decide. 
I only know they were there and in numbers sufficient 
to crowd the bright and ruddy auditorium. They were 
a trifle damp about the ankles and disordered about the 
hair, but their hands were in prime working order, their 
hearts were warm, their perceptions quick — what more 
could the most terrified actress pray for in an audience? 

The play was one of Gilbert's deliciously poetic satires 
— well cast, beautifully produced, after the manner of 
Union Square productions generally, and Success shook 
the rain off her wings and perched upon our banners, and 
we were all filled with pride and joy, in spite of the young 
men with folded white papers who swirled wildly up and 
down Fourth Avenue in the storm, and of those other 
young men who came early and strove diligently to get 
seats within reaching distance of the foot-lights, only to 
find that by some strange accident both those rows of 
chairs were fully occupied when the doors were first 
throw open. Yes, in spite of all those disappointed young 
men, we had a success, and I was not enjoined. Yet there 
were two rather long managerial faces there that night. 
For unless my out-of-town managers threw me over- 



"THE GENEVA CROSS'' 381 

board, because of the trouble about " Alixe," I could re- 
main in this charming play of " The Wicked World " but 
two short weeks. And no manager can be expected to 
rejoice over the forced withdrawal of a success. 

And right there Mr. Palmer saw fit to do a very gra- 
cious thing. After the first outburst of anger and disap- 
pointment from Mr. Thomas Hall (my Philadelphia man- 
ager), instead of breaking his engagement with me, as 
he had every right to do, he stood by his contract to star 
me and at the same terms, if I could provide a play — 
any play to fill the time with. I had nothing of course 
but the Daly plays, so my thanks and utter abandonment 
of the engagement were neatly packed within the regu- 
lation ten telegraphic words, when Mr. Palmer offered me 
the use of his play, " The Geneva Cross," written by 
George Fawcett Rowe. In an instant my first telegram 
changed into a joyous acceptance. I was studying my 
part at night, my mother was ripping, picking out and 
pressing at skirts and things by day. Congratulating 
myself upon my good fortune in having once seen the 
play in New York, I went to Philadelphia, and after just 
one rehearsal of this strange play, I opened my starring 
engagement. Can I ever forget the thrill I felt when I 
received my first thousand dollars ? I counted it by twen- 
ties, then by tens, but I got the most satisfaction out of 
counting it by fives — it seemed so much more that way. 
I was spending it with the aid of a sheet of foolscap paper 
and a long pencil until after two o'clock in the morning. 
My mother to this day declares that that was the very 
best black silk dress she has ever owned — that one out 
of that first thousand she means, and on the wall here be- 
side me hangs a fine and rare engraving of the late Queen 
Victoria in her coronation robes that I gave myself as a 
memento of that first wonderful thousand. That, when 
the other managers saw that Mr. Hall kept faith with me, 
and had apparently not lost by his action, they followed 
suit and all my engagements were filled — thanks to Mr. 
Palmer's kindness and Mr. Hall's pluck as well as gener- 
osity. 



CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD 

We Give a Charity Performance of " Camille," and Are 
Struck with Amazement at our Success — Mr. Palmer 
Takes the Cue and Produces " Camille " for Me at the 
Union Square. 

THEN came the great " charity benefit," and " Ca- 
mille " — that " Ninon de l'Enclos " of the drama, 
who, in spite of her years, can still count lovers at 
her feet. 

It is amazing how much accident has to do with the 
career of actors. 
Shakespeare says : 

" There 's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them how we will." 

And heaven knows I " rough-hewed " the " Camille " 
proposition to the best of my power. I came hurrying 
back to New York, specially to act at the mighty benefit, 
given for the starving poor of the city. Every theatre 
was to give a performance on the same day, and a ticket 
purchased was good at any one of them. I had selected 
" Love's Sacrifice," an old legitimate play, for that occa- 
sion and Mr. Palmer had cast it, when an actress suddenly 
presented herself at his office declaring she had made that 
play her property, by her own exceptional work in it in 
former years, at another theatre. Threatening hysterics 
often prove valuable weapons in a manager's office, where, 
strangely enough, " a scene " is hated above all things. 

I was informed of this lady's claim to a play that was 
anybody's property, and at once withdrew in the interest 
of peace. But what then was to be done for the benefit ? 

382 



"CAMILLE" IS SUGGESTED 383 

Every play proposed had some drawback. Mr. Palmer 
suggested " Camille," and all my objections crowding to 
my lips at once, I fairly stammered and spluttered over 
the expression of them: I hated! hated! hated! the 
play! The people who had preceded me in it were too 
great ! I should be the merest pigmy beside them. I did 
not think Camille as vulgar and coarse as one great 
woman had made her — nor so chill and nun-like as an- 
other had conceived her to be. And the critics would 
fall upon me and joyously tear me limb from limb. They 
would justly cry " Presumption," and — and — I had no 
clothes ! no, not one stitch had I to wear (of course you 
will make the usual allowance for an excited woman and 
not take that literally !) and then, oh, dear ! I'm dreadfully 
ashamed of myself, but to tell the exact truth, I wept — 
for the first and only time in my life — I wept from . 
anger ! L 

We all fumed — we, meaning Mr. Palmer, Mr. Caz- 
auran, that ferret-faced, mysterious little man, whose 
clever brain and dramatic instincts made him so valuable 
about a theatre; and the big, silently observant Mr. 
Shook, and I. Cazauran said he knew all the business of 
the play and could tell me it, and began with certain 
things Miss Heron (the greatest Camille America had 
had) had done, and I indignantly declared I would leave 
a theatre before I would do as much. I argued it was 
unnecessary. Camille was not brutal — she had associ- 
ated with gentlemen, members of the nobility, men who 
were acquainted with court circles. She wouJd have 
learned refinement of manners from them. Such brutal- 
ities would have shocked and driven away the boyish, 
clean-hearted Armand. Her very disease made her ex- 
quisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment. If 
she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident 
knowledge of the world. She allured men by the very 
refinement of her vice. And as I paused to take breath, 
Mr. Shook's bass voice was heard for the first time, as he 
asked, conclusively : " Whom can we get for Armand on 
such short notice ? " 



384 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I turned piteously to Mr. Palmer : " The critics " — 
I gasped and stopped. He smiled reassuringly and said : 
" Don't be frightened, Miss Morris, they will never attack 
a piece of work offered in charity. Just do your best 
and remember it's only for once." 

" Dear Lord ! only for once ! " and with wet cheeks I 
made my way home, with a copy of the detested play in 
my hand. Late that evening I was notified that Mr. Mayo 
would play Armand. 

I had not one dress suited for the part. I knew I 
should look like a school-mistress in one act and a stage 
ingenue in another. I had a ball-room gown, but it was 
not a suitable color. I should only be correct when I got 
into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. 
Actress fashion, I got my gowns together first, and then 
sat down with my string of amber beads to study — I 
never learn anything so quickly as when I have something 
to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has 
assisted me over many and many an hour of mental labor 
— a pleasanter custom than that of walking and studying 
aloud, I think, and surely more agreeable to one's near 
neighbors. 

The rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. 
We went over two acts on one stage one day and over 
three acts on another stage the next day, and we shrieked 
our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of 
hammering and sawing, of running and ordering — for 
every stage was filled at the rear with rushing carpenters 
and painters. Yet those were the only rehearsals that 
unfortunate play received for the benefit performance, 
and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in par- 
ticular, and I remember I spent a good part of my time 
in trying to induce the handsome young English woman 
who did Olympe to keep out of my chair and to go to 
and from the piano at the right moment. 

The house was packed to the danger-point, the play be- 
ing given at what was then called " The Lyceum," which 
Charles Fechter had just been having remodeled, and 



WITH FLYING COLORS 385 

the police discovering that day that the floor of the bal- 
cony was settling at the right, under the too great weight, 
very cleverly ordered the ushers to whisper a seeming 
message in the ear of a person here, there, and yonder, 
who would nod, rise, and step quietly out, returning a 
moment later to smilingly motion their party out with 
them, and thus the weight was lightened without a panic 
being caused, though it made one feel rather sick and 
faint afterward to note the depth to which the floor had 
sagged under the feet of that tightly packed audience. 

James Lewis used to say to me : " Clara is the biggest 
fraud of a first-nighter the profession can show. There 
she'll stand shivering and shaking, white-sick with fright, 
waiting for her cue, and when she gets it, she skips on 
and waltzes through her scene as if she'd been at it for 
a year at least. No wonder Mr. Daly calls her his best 
first-nighter." 

So at that first performance of " Camille," as Frank 
Mayo touched my icy hand and burning brow, and saw 
the trembling of my limbs, as with fever-dried lips I 
waited for the curtain's rise, he said : " God ! but you 
suffer! I reckon you'll not act much to-day, little 
woman ! " And a few minutes later, as I laughed and 
chatted gayly through the opening lines of the play, I dis- 
tinctly heard Frank say : " Well, of all the sells ! Why 
confound her, I'm twice as nervous as she is ! " 

The first act went with a sort of dash and go that was 
the result of pure recklessness. The house was delighted. 
The curtain had to go up twice. We all looked at one an- 
other, and then laughingly laid it to the crowd. The 
second act went with such a rush and sweep of hot pas- 
sion between Armand and Camille that when De Var- 
villv's torn letter was cast to Nanine as Camille* s answer, 
and the lovers leaped to each others' arms, the house sim- 
ply roared, and as the curtain went up and down, up 
and down, Mayo gasped in amazement: "Well, I'm 
damned ! " But I made answer : " No, you're not — 
but you will be if you hammer my poor spine in another 



386 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

act as you have in this. Go easy, Frank; I can't stand 
it!" 

The third act went beautifully. Many women sobbed 
at times. I made my exit some little time before the end 
of the act, and of course went directly to my room, which 
was beneath the stage, and there began to dress for the 
ball-room scene, and lo! after Armand had had two or 
three calls for his last speech, something set them on to 
call for Camille. And they kept at it, too, till at last a 
mermaid-like creature — not exactly half fish and half 
woman, but half ball-gown train and half dinky little 
dressing-sack — came bobbing to the curtain side, delight- 
ing the audience by obeying it, but knocking spots out of 
the illusion of the play. 

In the fourth act Mr. Mayo played base-ball with me. 
He batted me and hurled me and sometimes I had a wild 
fear that he would kick me. Finally, he struck my head 
so hard that a large gold hairpin was driven through my 
scalp and I found a few moments' rest in truly fainting 
from fatigue, fright, and pain. 

But it all went. Great heaven! how it went! For 
Mayo was a great actor, and it was but intense excitement 
that made him so rough with me. Honestly we were so 
taken aback behind the scenes that none of us knew what 
to make of the frantic demonstrations — whether it was 
just the result of an extreme good nature in a great crowd, 
or whether we were giving an extremely good perform- 
ance. 

The last act I can never forget. I had cut out two or 
three pages from the dialogue in the book. I felt there was 
too much of it. That if Camille did not die, her audience 
would, and had built up a little scene for myself. Never 
would I have dared do such a thing had it been for more 
than one performance. That scene took in the crossing 
of the room to the window, the looking-glass scene, and 
the return to the bed. 

Dear heaven! it's good to be alive sometimes! to feel 
your fingers upon human hearts, to know a little pressure 



THE CAST OF "CAMILLE" 387 

hurts, that a little tighter pressure will set tears flowing. 
It was good, too, when that madly-rushed performance 
was at last over, to lie back comfortably dead, and hear 
the sweet music that is made by small gloved hands, vio- 
lently spatted together. " Yes, it was ' werry ' good." 

And Mr. Palmer, standing in his box, looking at the 
pleased, moist-eyed people in front, took up the cue they 
offered, so promptly that within twenty-four hours I had 
been engaged to play Camille at the Union Square, as one 
of a cast to be ever proud of, in a handsome production 
with sufficient rehearsals and correct gowns and plenty 
of extra ladies and gentlemen to " enter all ! " at the 
fourth act. And more still, the new play that was then in 
preparation was called in and packed away with moth- 
balls to wait until the old play had had its innings. 

Such a cast ! Just look at it ! 

M. Armand Duval Mr. Charles R. Thorne 

Comte de Varville Mr. McKee Rankin 

M. Duval (Pere) Mr. John Parselle 

M. Gustave Mr. Claude Burroughs 

M. Gaston Mr. Stuart Robson 

Mademoiselle Olympe Miss Maude Granger 

Mademoiselle Nichette Miss Kate Claxton 

Mademoiselle Nanine Miss Kate Holland 

Madame Prudence Miss Emily Mestayer 

If Mr. Palmer ever eats opium or hashish and has beau- 
teous visions, I am sure he will see himself making out 
those splendid old casts again. 

Every theatre-goer knows it's difficult for a stout, ro- 
mantic actor to make his love reach convincingly all the 
way round, and it is almost as difficult for an actor who 
has attained six feet of height to make his love include 
his entire length of anatomy. But Charles R. Thorne 
was the most satisfactory over-tall lover I ever saw. He 
really seemed entirely possessed by the passion of love. 
" My God Thorne " he was nicknamed because of his per- 



388 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

sistent use of that exclamation. Of course it did often 
occur in plays by authority of their authors, but whenever 
Thorne was nervous, confused, or " rattled," as actors 
term it, or uncertain of the next line, he would pass his 
hand across his brow and exclaim, in suppressed tones: 
" My God ! " and delicious creepy chills would go up and 
down the feminine spine out in the auditorium — the male 
spine is not so sensitive, you know. A fine actor, hot- 
tempered, quick to take offence, equally quick to repent 
his too hasty words ; as full of mischief as a monkey, he 
was greatly beloved by those near to him. I worked with 
him in perfect amity, albeit I do not think he ever called 
me anything but Johnny, the name Lou James bestowed 
upon me at Daly's ; and his death found me shocked and 
incredulous as well as grieved. He should have served 
his admiring publrc many a year longer, this most admira- 
ble Armand. 

And Mr. Parselle, what a delight his stage presence 
was. He had unction, jollity, tenderness, dignity, but 
above all a most polished courtesy. It was worth two 
dollars to see John Parselle in court dress, and his en- 
trance and salutation as Duval Pere in the cottage scene 
of " Camille " was an unfailing gratification to me — he 
was a dramatic gem of great value. 

Mr. Stuart Robson, by expressing a genuine tenderness 
of sympathy for the dying woman in the last act, amazed 
and delighted everyone. It had not been suspected that 
a trained comedian, who hopped about and lisped and 
squeaked through the other acts, could lay aside those 
eccentricities and show real gentleness and sincerity in 
the last — a very memorable Gaston was Mr. Stuart Rob- 
son. 

But oh, how many of these names are cut in marble 
now! Poor Claude Burroughs! with his big eyes, his 
water curls, and his tight-waisted coats. We would not 
have poked so much fun at him, had we known how terri- 
ble was the fate approaching him. 

And little Katie Holland — she of the knee-reaching 



EVOLUTION IN TASTE 389 

auburn locks, the gentlest of living creatures — God in His 
wisdom, which finite man may not understand, has taken 
and held safe, lo! these many years. 

As an ex-votary of pleasure, Prudence is always more 
convincing if she can show some remnant of past beauty ; 
so the statuesque regularity of feature the Mestayer fam- 
ily was famous for, told here, and the Prudence of Miss 
Emily Mestayer was as handsome and heartless a harpy 
as one ever saw. 

Then, too, there were the gorgeous Maude Granger, 
the ruddy-haired Claxton, and the piratically handsome 
Rankin ; their best opportunities were yet to come to all 
three. And with that cast Mr. Palmer achieved a great 
success, with the play that, old then, shows to this day 
the most astounding vitality. 

The only drawback was to be found in its impropriety 
as an entertainment for the ubiquitous " young person," 
in the immorality of Camille's life, which was much dwelt 
upon. Now — oh, the pity of it! — now Camille is, by 
comparison with modern plays, absolutely staid. It is the 
adulteries of wives and husbands that the " young per- 
son " looks unwinkingly upon to-day. Worse still — the 
breaking of the Seventh Commandment no longer leads 
to tragic punishment, as of yore, but the thunders that 
rolled about Mount Sinai at the promulgation of that 
awful warning : " Thou shalt not commit adultery ! " are 
answered now by the thunders of laughter that greet the 
taking in adultery of false wives and husbands in milli- 
ners' many-doored rooms, or restaurants' cabinet particu- 
lier. Alas, that the time should come that this passion for 
the illicit should so dominate the stage! 

One more delightful production at the Union Square 
Theatre I shared in, and then my regular company days 
were over. 



CHAPTER FORTY-FOURTH 

"Miss Multon" Put in Rehearsal — Our Squabble over 
the Manner of her Death — Great Success of the Play 
— Mr. Palmer's Pride in it — My Au Revoir. 

THE other day, in recalling to Mr. Palmer a long 
list of such successful productions of his as " Led 
Astray/' " The Two Orphans," " Camille," " Miss 
Multon," "The Danicheffs," "The Celebrated Case," 
etc., he surprised me by emphatically declaring that the 
performance of " Miss Multon " came nearer to absolute 
perfection than had any other play he had ever produced ; 
and to convince me of that, he simply brought forward 
the cast of the play to help prove the truth of his assertion. 
As we went over the characters one by one, I was com- 
pelled to admit that from the leading part to the smallest 
servant, I had never seen one of them quite equaled since. 
Mr. Palmer's pride in this production seemed the more 
odd at first, because of its slight demands upon the scenic- 
artist, the carpenter, and upholsterer. It needs just two 
interior scenes — a busy doctor's study in London and a 
morning-room in a French country-house — that's all. 
" But," he will enthusiastically cry, " think of that per- 
formance, recall those people," and so, presently, I will 
obey him and recall them every one. 

The play had twice failed in Paris, which was, to say 
the least, discouraging. When it was read to me I 
thought the tremendous passion of maternity ought to 
touch the public heart — others there were, who said 
no, that sexual love alone could interest the public. Mr. 
Palmer thought the French play had needed a little bright- 
ening ; then, too, he declared the people wanted to see the 
actual end of the heroine (one of Mr. Daly's fixed beliefs, 

390 



PREPARING FOR -MISS MULTON" 391 

by the way), therefore he had Mr. Cazauran write two 
additional short acts — a first, to introduce some bright- 
ness in the children's Christmas-tree party and some 
amusement in the old bachelor doctor and his old maid 
sister ; and a last for the death of Miss M niton. 

After brief reflection I concluded I would risk it, and 
then, just by way of encouragement, Mr. Cazauran, who 
had always been at pains to speak as kindly of my work 
as that work would allow, when he was critic on the dif- 
ferent papers, declared that all my acquired skill and nat- 
ural power of expressing emotion united would prove use- 
less to me — that Miss Midton was to be my Waterloo, 
and to all anxious or surprised " whys ? " sapiently made 
answer: "No children." His argument was, that not 
being a mother in reality, I could not be one in imagina- 
tion. 

Always lacking in self-confidence, those words made 
my heart sink physically, it seemed to me, as well as fig- 
uratively; but the ever-ready jest came bravely to the fore 
to hide my hurt from the public eye, and at next rehearsal 
I shook my head mournfully and remarked to the little 
man : " Bad — bad ! Miss Cushman must be a very 
bad Lady Macbeth — I don't want to see her ! " 

"What?" he exclaimed, "Cushman not play Lady 
Macbeth — for heaven's sake, why not?" 

" No murderess ! " I declared, with an air of authority 
recognized by those about me as a fair copy of his own. 
" If Miss Cushman is not a murderess, pray how can she 
act Lady Macbeth — who is ? " And the laugh that fol- 
lowed helped a little to scare away the bugaboo his words 
had raised in my mind. 

Then, ridiculous as it may seem to an outsider, the ques- 
tion of dress proved to be a snag, and there was any 
amount of backing and filling before we could get safely 
round it. 

" What are you going to wear, Miss Morris ? " asked 
Mr. Cazauran one day after rehearsal — and soon we 
were at it, and the air was thick with black, brown, gray, 



392 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

purple, red, and blue ! I starting out with a gray travel- 
ing-dress, for a reason, and Mr. Cazauran instantly and 
without reason condemned it. He thought a rich purple 
would be about the thing. Mr. Palmer gave a small con- 
temptuous " Humph " 1 and I cried out, aghast : " Pur- 
ple ? the color of royalty, of pomp, of power? A governess 
in a rich purple? Your head would twist clear round, 
hind side to, with amazement, if you saw a woman crossing 
from Calais to Dover attired in a royal purple traveling- 
suit." 

Mr. Palmer said : " Nonsense, Cazauran ; purple is not 
appropriate ; " and then, " How would blue — dark blue 
or brown do ? " he asked. 

" For just a traveling-dress either one would answer 
perfectly," I answered ; " but think of the character I am 
trying to build up. Why not let me have all the help my 
gown can give me? My hair is to be gray — white at 
temples ; I have to wear a dress that requires no change 
in going at once to cars and boat. Now gray or drab is a 
perfect traveling-gown, but think, too, what it can ex- 
press — gray hair, white face, gray dress without relief 
of trimming, does it not suggest the utterly flat, hopeless 
monotony of the life of a governess in London? Not 
hunger, not cold, but the very dust and ashes of life? 
Then, when the woman arrives at the home of her rival 
and tragedy is looming big on the horizon, I want to wear 
red." 

" Good God ! " exclaimed Cazauran ; and really red was 
so utterly unworn at that time that I was forced to buy 
furniture covering, reps, in order to get the desired color, 
a few days later. 

" Yes, red," I persisted. " Not too bright, not impu- 
dent scarlet, but a dull, rich shade that will give out a 
gleam when the light strikes it ; that will have the force of 
a threat — a menacing color, that white collar, cuffs and 
black lace shoulder wrap will restrict to governess-like 
primness, until, with mantle torn aside, she stands a pillar 
of fire and fury. And at the last I want a night-dress 



A GRUESOME DISCUSSION 393 

and a loose robe over it of a hard light blue, that will 
throw up the ghastly pallor of the face. There — that's 
what I want to wear, and why I want to wear it." 

Mr. Palmer decided that purple was impossible and 
black too conventional, while the proposed color-scheme 
of gray, red, and blue seemed reasonable and characteris- 
tic. And suddenly that little wretch, Cazauran, laughed 
as good-naturedly as possible and said he thought so, too, 
but it did no harm to talk things over, and so we got 
around that snag, only to see a second one looming 
.up before us in the question of what was to kill Miss 
Mult on. 

I asked it : " Of what am I to die? " 

" Die? how ? Why, just die, that's all," replied Cazau- 
ran. 

" But of what?" I persisted; "what kills me? Miss 
Multon at present dies simply that the author may get rid 
of her. I don't want to be laughed at. We are not in 
the days of ' Charlotte Temple ' — we suffer, but we live. 
To die of a broken heart is to be guyed, unless there is 
an aneurism. Now what can Miss Multon die from? 
If I once know that, Fll find out the proper business for 
the scene." 

" Perhaps you'd have some of the men carry knives," 
sneered Cazauran, " and then she could be stabbed ? " 

" Oh, no ! " I answered ; " knives are not necessary for 
the stabbing of a woman ; a few sharp, envenomed words 
can do that nicely — but we are speaking of death, not 
wounds ; from what is Miss Multon to die ? " 

Then Mr. Palmer made suggestions, and Miss Morris 
made suggestions, and Mr. Cazauran triumphantly wiped 
them out of existence. But at last Cazauran himself 
grudgingly remarked that consumption would do well 
enough, and Mr. Palmer and I, as with one vengeful 
voice, cried out, Camille! And Cazauran said some 
things like " Norn de Dieu ! " or " Dieu de Dieu ! " and I 
said : " Chassez a droite," but the little man was vexed 
and would not laugh. 



394 LIFE °N THE STAGE 

Someone proposed a fever — but I raised the contagion 
question. Poison was thought of, but that would prevent 
the summoning of the children from Paris, by Dr. Os- 
borne. We parted that day with the question unanswered. 

At next rehearsal I still wondered how I was to die, 
hard or easy, rigid or limp, slow or quick. " Oh," I 
exclaimed, " I must know whether I am to die in a second 
or to begin in the first act." And in my own exaggerated, 
impatient words I found my first hint — " why not begin 
to die in the first act ? " 

When we again took up the question, I asked, eagerly : 
" What are those two collapses caused by — the one at the 
mirror, the other at the school-table with the children ? " 

" Extreme emotion," I was answered. 

" Then," I asked, " why not extreme emotion acting 
upon a weak heart ? " 

Mr. Palmer was for the heart trouble from the first — 
he saw its possibilities, saw that it was new, comparatively 
speaking at least — I suppose nothing is really new — and 
decided in its favor ; but for some reason the little man Caz- 
auran was piqued, and the result was that he introduced 
just one single line, that could faintly indicate that Miss 
Multon was a victim of heart disease — in the first act, 
where, after a violent exclamation from the lady, Dr. Os- 
borne said : " Oh, I thought it was your heart again," 
and on eight words of foundation I was expected to raise 
a superstructure of symptoms true enough to nature to 
be readily recognized as indicating heart disease ; and yet 
oh, difficult task !• that disease must not be allowed to ob- 
trude itself into first place, nor must it be too poignantly 
expressed. In brief, we decided I was to show to the pub- 
lic a case of heart disease, ignored by its victim and only 
recognized among the characters about her by the doctor. 

And verily my work was cut out for me. Why, when 
I went to the Doctors Seguin to be coached, I could not 
even locate my heart correctly by half a foot. Both father 
and son did all they could to teach me the full horror of 
angina pectoris, which I would, of course, tone down for 



A "PATIENT" MODEL 395 

artistic reasons. And to this day tears rise in my eyes 
when I recall the needless cruelty of the younger Seguin, 
in running a heart patient up a long flight of stairs, that 
I might see the gasping of the gray-white mouth for 
breath, the flare and strain of her waxy nostrils. Then, 
in remorseful generosity, though heaven knows her com- 
ing was no act of mine, I made her a little gift, and as she 
was slipping the bill inside her well-mended glove, her 
eye caught the number on its corner, and, she must have 
been very poor, her tormented and tormenting heart 
gave a plunge and sent a rush of blood into her face that 
ma'de her very eyeballs pinken ; and then again the clutch- 
ing fingers, the flaring nostrils, the gasping for air, the 
pleading look, the frightened eyes! Oh, it is unforgetta- 
ble ! poor soul ! poor soul ! 

Well, having my symptoms gathered together, they yet 
had to be sorted out, toned down, and adapted to this or 
that occasion. But at least the work had not been thrown 
away, for on the first night Dr. Fordyce Barker — a keen 
dramatic critic, by the way — occupied with a friend a 
private box. He had rescued me from the hands of the 
specialists in Paris, and I had at times been his patient. 
He applauded heartily after the first two acts, but looked 
rather worried. At the end of the third act a gentleman 
of his party turned and looked at him inquiringly. The 
doctor threw up his hands, while shaking his head discon- 
solately. The friend said : " Why, I'm surprised — I 
thought Miss Morris suffered from her spine?" 

" So she does — so she does," nodded Dr. Barker. 

" But," went on the friend, " this thing isn't spine — 
this looks like heart to me." 

" I should say so," responded the doctor. " I knew 
she wasn't strong — just a thing of nerves and will — 
but I never saw a sign of heart trouble before. But it's 
here now, and it's bad ; for, by Jove, she can't go through 
another attack like that and finish this play. Too bad, 
too bad ! " 

And his honest sympathy for my new affliction spoiled 



396 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

his evening right up to the point of discovery that it was 
all in the play. Then he enjoyed the laugh against him- 
self almost as much as I enjoyed his recognition of my 
laboriously acquired symptoms. 

And now for Mr. Palmer's beloved cast. 

With what a mixture of pleasure and grief I recall Sara 
Jewett, the loveliest woman and the most perfect repre- 
sentative of a French lady of quality I have ever seen in 
the part of Mathilde. 

Mr. James O'Neil's success in Maurice de la Tour 
was particularly agreeable to me, because I had earnestly 
called attention to him some time before he was finally 
summoned to New York. His fine work in Chicago, where 
I had first met him, had convinced me that he ought 
to be here, and that beautiful performance fully justified 
every claim I had made for him in the first place. The 
part is a difficult one. Some men rant in it, some are sav- 
agely cruel, some cold as stone. O'Neil's Maurice bore 
his wound with a patient dignity that made his one out- 
break into hot passion tremendously effective, through 
force of contrast ; while his sympathetic voice gave great 
value to the last tender words of pardon. 

And that ancient couple — that never-to-be-forgotten 
pair, Mr. Stoddard and Mrs. Wilkins ! The latter's hus- 
band, belonging to the English bar, had been Sergeant 
Wilkins, a witty, well-living, popular man, who quite 
adored his pretty young wife and lavished his entire in- 
come upon their ever-open house, so that his sudden tak- 
ing off left her barely able to pay for a sea of crape — 
with not a pound left over for a life-preserver or raft of 
any kind. But on her return to the stage, her knowledge 
of social amenities, the dignity and aplomb acquired by 
the experienced hostess, remained with her, in a certain 
manner, an air of suave and gentle authority, that was 
invaluable to her in the performance of gentlewomen; 
while the good-fellowship, the downright jollity of her in- 
fectious laugh were the crown of her comedy work. Who 
can forget the Multon tea-table scene between Mrs. Wil- 



MR. PALMERS CAST 397 

kins and Mr. Stoddard. How the audience used to laugh 
and laugh when, after his accusing snort: " More cop- 
peras ! " he sat and glared at her pretty protesting face 
framed in its soft white curls. He was so ludicrously 
savage I had to coin a name for him ; and one night when 
the house simply would not stop laughing, I remarked: 
" Oh, doesn't he look like a perfect old Sardonyx ? " 

" Yes-m ! " quickly replied the property boy beside me ; 
" yes-m, that's the very beast he reminds me of ! " 

Certainly, I never expect to find another Dr. Osborne 
so capable of contradicting a savage growl with a tender 
caress. 

Mr. Parselle, as the gentle old Latin scholar, tutor, and 
acting godfather, was beyond praise. He admitted to 
me one night, coming out of a brown study, that he be- 
lieved Belin was a character actually beyond criticism, 
and that, next to creating it as author, he ranked the honor 
of acting it ; but there spoke the old-school actor who re- 
spected his profession. 

And those children — were they not charming? That 
Sister Jane, given so sweetly, so sincerely by the daughter 
of the famous Matilda Heron, who, christened Helene, 
was known only by the pet name Bijou, in public as well 
as in private life. And the boy Paid, her little brother. 
Almost, I believe, Mabel Leonard was herself created ex- 
pressly to play that part. Never did female thing wear 
male clothes so happily. All the impish perversity, all the 
wriggling restlessness of the small boy were to be found 
in the person of the handsome, erratic, little Mabel. 

Even the two maids were out of the common, one being 
played by a clever and very versatile actress, who had 
been a friend of my old Cleveland days. She came to me 
out of the laughing merry past, but all pale and sad in 
trailing black, for death had been robbing her most 
cruelly. She wished for a New York engagement and 
astonished me by declaring she would play anything, no 
matter how small, if only the part gave her a foothold on 
the New York stage. 



398 LIFE ON THE STAGE 

I sought Mr. Palmer and talked hard and long for my 
friend, but he laughed and answered : " An actress as 
clever as that will be very apt to slight a part of only two 
scenes." 

But I assured him to the contrary ; that she would make 
the most of every line, and the part would be a stepping- 
stone to bigger things. He granted my prayer, and 
Louise Sylvester, by her earnestness, her breathless ex- 
citement in rushing to and fro, bearing messages, answer- 
ing bells, and her excellent dancing, raised Kitty to a 
character part, while Louise, the smallest of them all, was 
played with a brisk and bright assurance that made it 
hard to believe that Helen Vincent had come direct from 
her convent school to the stage-door — as she had. 

A great, great triumph for everyone was that first 
night of " Miss Multon," and one of the sweetest drops in 
my own cup was added by the hand of New York's 
honored and beloved poet, Edmund Clarence Stedman, 
for, all nested in a basket of sweet violets, came a son- 
net from him to me, and though my unworthiness was 
evident enough, nevertheless I took keenest joy in the 
beauty of its every line — surely a very sweet and gra- 
cious token from one who was secure to one who was 
still struggling. And now, when years have passed, he 
has given me another beautiful memory to keep the first 
one company. I was taking my first steps in the new 
profession of letters, which seems somewhat uncertain, 
slow, and introspective, when compared with the swift, 
decisive, if rather superficial profession of acting, and 
Mr. Stedman, in a pause from his own giant labor on his 
great " Anthology," looked at, nay, actually considered, 
that shivering fledgling thing, my first book, and wrote 
a letter that spelled for me the word encouragement, and 
being a past-master in the art of subtle flattery, quoted 
from my own book and set alight a little flame of hope in 
my heart that is not extinguished yet. So gently kind 
remain some people who are great. Just as Tomasso Sal- 
vini, from the heights of his unquestioned supremacy — 



AU REVOIR 399 

hut stay, the line must be drawn somewhere. It would 
not be kind to go on until my publisher himself cried: 
•Halt!" 

So I shall stop and lock away the pen and paper — 
lock them hard and fast, because so many charming, so 
many famous people came within my knowledge in the 
next few years that the temptation to gossip about them 
is hard to resist. But to those patient ones, who have 
listened to this story of a little maid's clamber upward 
toward the air and sunshine, that God meant for us all, I 
send greeting, as, between mother and husband, with the 
inevitable small dog on my knee, I prepare to lock the 
desk — I pause just to kiss my hands to you and say Au 
rev&ir! 



TPIE END 











RECENT 
PUBLICATIONS 

of 

JHcClure,$fnl= 
lips & Co. 

iViero York 

1901-1902 











Anthony Hopes New Novel 

TRISTRAM OF BLENT 

IT is always a question what Anthony Hope will do 
next. From a dashing romance of an imaginary 
kingdom to drawing-room repartee is a leap which 
this versatile writer performs with the greatest ease. In 
his "Tristram of Blent" he has made a new departure, 
demonstrating his ability to depict character by some 
exceedingly delicate and skillful delineation. The plot 
is unique, and is based upon the difference of time of the 
Russian and English calendars, by which a marriage, a 
birth, and the ownership of lands and name are in turn 
affected, producing complications which hurry the reader 
on in search of the satisfactory solution which awaits 
him. The Tristrams are characters of strong individual- 
ities, of eccentricities likewise. These, coloring all 
their acts, leave the reader in doubt as to the issue ; yet 
it is a logical story through and through, events following 
events in carefully planned sequence. A work of un- 
doubted originality based on modern conditions, "Tris- 
tram of Blent " proves that the author does not need an 
ideal kingdom to write a thrilling romance. ( 12mo, $1 . 50. ) 

IRISH PASTORALS 

By Shan F. Bullock 

" TRISH PASTORALS" is a collection of character 
X sketches of the soil — of the Irish soil — by one who 
has lived long and closely among the laboring, farming 
peasantry of Ireland. It is not, however, a dreary re- 
cital of long days of toil with scanty food and no recre- 
ation, but it depicts within a life more strenuous than 
one can easily realize, abundant elements of keen native 
wit and irrepressible good nature. The book will give 
many American readers a new conception of Irish pas- 
toral life, and a fuller appreciation of the conditions which 
go to form the strength and gentleness of the Irish char- 
acter. (12mo, ^1. 50.) 



THE WESTERNERS 

By Stewart Edward White 

WHEN the Black Hills were discovered to be rich 
in valuable ores, there began that heterogeneous 
influx of human beings which always follows new-found 
wealth. In this land and in this period, Stewart Edward 
White has laid the setting of "The Westerners," a story 
which is full of excitement, beauty, pathos and humor. 
A young girl, growing to womanhood in a rough mining 
camp, is one of the central figures of the plot. The other 
is a half-breed, a capricious yet cool, resourceful rascal, 
ever occupied in schemes of revenge. Around these two 
are grouped the interesting characters which gave color 
to that rude life, and, back of them all, rough nature in 
her pristine beauty. The plot is strong, logical, and well 
sustained ; the characters are keenly drawn ; the details 
cleverly written. Taken all in all, "The Westerners" is 
a thoroughly good story of the far West in its most pict- 
uresque decade. (12mo, $1.50.) 



BY BREAD ALONE 

By I. K. Friedman 

MR. FRIEDMAN has chosen a great theme for his 
new novel, one which affords a wealth of color 
and a wide field for bold delineation. It is a story of the 
steel-workers which introduces the reader to various and 
little-known aspects of those toiling lives. In the course 
of the work occurs a vivid description of a great strike. 
The author, however, shows no tinge of prejudice, but 
depicts a bitter labor struggle with admirable impartiality. 
Along with the portrayal of some of man's worst passions 
is that of his best, his affection for woman, forming a 
love-story which softens the stern picture. The book 
will appeal to students of industrial tendencies, as well 
as to every lover of good fiction. (12mo, $1.50.) 



HERE are two volumes of most thrilling tales, gleaned 
from the material which the age has brought us. 
Each collection occupies an original field and depicts some 
characteristic phase of our great commercial life. 



I 



WALL STREET STORIES 

By Edtvin Lefevre 

T would be difficult to find a better setting for a good 
story than this hotbed of speculation. On the Ex- 
change, every day is a day of excitement, replete with 
dangerous risks, narrow escapes, victories, defeats. There 
are rascals, "Napoleonic" rascals, and the "lambs" 
who are shorn ; there is the old fight between right and 
wrong, and sometimes the right wins, and sometimes — 
as the world goes — the wrong. In the maddening whirl 
of this life, which he knows so well, Edwin Lefevre has 
laid the setting of his Wall Street stories. A number of 
them have already appeared in McClure's Magazine, and 
their well-merited success is the cause of publication in 
book form of this absorbing collection. (12mo, $1.25.) 

HELD FOR ORDERS 

STORIES OF RAILROAD LIFE 

By Frank H. Spearman „ 

WHILE railroad life affords fewer elements of pas- 
sion and emotion than the life of Wall Street, it 
offers however a far greater field for the depiction of 
the heroic. Deeds of bravery are probably more com- 
mon among these hardy, cool, resourceful men — the rail- 
road employees — than among any other members of 
society. ' ' Held For Orders " describes thrilling incidents 
in the management of a mountain division in the far West. 
The stories are all independent, but have characters in 
common, many of whom have been met with in McClure's 
Magazine. Mr. Spearman combines the qualities of a 
practical railroad man with those of a fascinating story- 
teller, and his tales, both in subject and manner of tell- 
ing, are something new in literature. (12mo, $1.50.) 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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